


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. Copyright No. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






















That will do, tliaiik you. I am entirely disengaged now. 





MABEL LEE 


A NOVEL. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF 

“VALEEIE AYLMEK,” “MOKTON HOUSE,” ETC. 



NEW YOKE: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

72 FIFTH AVENUE. 

1895. 

L- 


^ // 


XWO COPIES BECElvaO. 

L Ibrary of C«iigre«% 
Offtoa of tilt 

MAY 1 0 1800 


Keglttor ,of C#pyrtgllt«i 

Aej?; 


SECOND COPY. 


63354 

Enteeed, according to Act of Congress, in the year 18T*.. 
Bt D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 


1899 


In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washingtono 


CHAP. 

I. — MAKING UP HIS MIND, 

II. — MABEL LEE, .... 

III. MABEL GIVES ADVICE, . 

IV. — AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, 

V. — HEBE IN A EIBBON-SHOP, 

VI. — IN THE GAEDEN, 

TII. — ME. AINSLIE’s EXPEEIMENT, 

VIII. — TAKING COUNSEL, . 

IX. — PLAIN SPEAKING, 

X. FOEESHADOWINGS, . . 

XI. “in a GONDOLA,” 

XII. — ON THE WING, 

XIII. — midsummee-night’s DEEAM, 

XIV. — THE EOSE BY THE WATEE’s EDGE, 

XV. A FAIET FLITTING, 


CHAP. PAG3 

XVI. CONFLICTING EVIDENCE, . 90 

XVII. — UNDEE SUSPICION, . . 97 

XVIII. VOX POPULI, .... 103 

XIX. — ^A FOEGEEY, . . . 108 

XX. — A LOST TEINKET, . . .114 

XXI. ALL AT SEA, . . . 118 

XXII. — BEOKEN DOWN, . . .122 
XXIII. — ON THE TEACK, . . ]27 


XXIV. TWO HEADS AEE BETTEE THAN 

ONE, 132 

XXV. THE DOUBLE SEAL OF BLOOD, 135 

XXVI. — THE WAGES OF SIN, . . , 144 

XXVII. THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES 

AFTEE THEM, • . . .152 

XXVIII. — INTO THE SUNLIGHT, . . 158 


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I 



MABEL LEE 


CHAPTER I. 

MAKING TIP ms MIND. 

There had been a shower in the earlier 
part of the day, hut the April afternoon was 
very fair and peaceful, full of the fragrance 
of opening blossoms, the rustle of half-grown 
leaves, the glitter of rain-drops, the glimmer 
of capricious sunlight, the twitter of full- 
throated birds, the tender beauty, and the 
whole indescribable charm of the spring- 
time, when a sturdy horseman rode up to 
the door of Seyton House, and calling to 
one of two negro boys, who were making a 
great deal of play and very little work for 
themselves on its broad, green lawn, asked 
where their master was. 

“You’ll find him in the liberry, Mr. 
Blake,” answered the nearest one, touch- 
ing his hat, with that subtle mixture of re- 
spect and familiarity only possible to the ser- 
vant of the ancient regime.' “He looked 
out of the window a little while back, and 
axed if you hadn’t come yet. Hold Brown 
Jerry? Yes, sir. Mus’ I take him to the 
stable? ” 

“Ho,” said Mr. Blake, dismounting as he 
spoke. “ No — I sha’n’t be long. Walk him 
till he cools off, and then fasten him here. 
What are you doing, or pretending to do ? ” 

“ Rolling the lawn, sir. Mr. Farris set 
us at it.” 

“ Mr. Farris might better have stayed to 
see it done, then. You may tell him so, 
when he comes. In the library, did you 
say ? ” 


Although he asked the question, he did 
not wait for an answer, but strode away at 
once, skirting the lofty front portico, the 
jutting bay-windows, and the many angles 
in which Seyton House abounded, until he 
turned suddenly upon a broad terrace, set 
out with vases and balustrade in the Italian 
style, and commanding a strikingly magnifi- 
cent view — a view so magnificent, indeed, 
and so important in the story which is to 
come, that it merits a few words of careful 
description and careful attention. 

First, however, it may be well to state 
that Seyton House was one of those solid 
and somewhat stately relics of colonial 
times which are yet to be found at inter- 
vals throughout Virginia and the Oarolinas, 
and that it had been built by one of the 
many Cavalier adventurers, of good blood 
but scanty fortune, who thronged the shores 
of America during the reign of Elizabeth 
and her Stuart successors — one whom strin- 
gent circumstances, chiefly of a pecuniary 
nature, forced from the gay shades of White- 
hall ; who, after cruising with the bold buc- 
caneers of the Caribbean Sea, and doing bat- 
tle with the warlike Indians of the new El 
Dorado, at last chanced upon that mine of 
virgin gold to seek which he had set forth 
on his life of adventure. Years had been 
spent in the search, however, and, when for- 
tune at last came, youth and the capacity 
of enjoyment were alike gone from him. 
The king he had served was an exile, the 
boon companions of his old revels were 
scattered and gone ; the women he had 
loved were dead, or — worse yet I — old and 


6 


MABEL LEE. 


ugly; so, sadly enough, he resigned him- 
self to the trite fact that change and time 
stand still for no man, and prepared to en- 
joy his wealth where he had found it. He 
settled, therefore, in the colonies, drank 
King James’s health to the end of his life, 
.and died at last, leaving behind him two 
more than ordinarily enduring monuments 
of his existence. One was this stately house 
which bore his name ; the other, a charge 
upon his descendants never to part with, or 
suffer this inheritance to be alienated from 
them, but, in case the entail expired, to re- 
new it immediately. Under English law 
the fulfilment of this requirement had 
been very easy, but, when the government 
changed hands, it became more difl&cult; 
yet, even then, family pride found such good 
means to compass its end, that for more 
than a hundred years the Seyton property had 
rema’ined intact, chiefiy through a peculiar 
family custom, which in time became a fam- 
ily obligation. This custom made it bind- 
ing on every third possessor of the house 
to renew the entail (which, according to 
American law, could not be extended be- 
yond one generation), securing the noble old 
mansion and the broad lands for which the 
Seytons could still show King James’s grant 
to one direct heir, and thus preserving them 
from the indignity of division and spolia- 
tion. This was the Seyton tradition, and, 
up to the time of which we write, no Sey- 
ton had ever betrayed the trust given to 
him, or taken advantage of that power 
which rested with every third one — the 
power of ceasing to renew the entail. 

Thanks to this wise policy, there was no 
such place, far and wide, as the Seyton 
place ; no such stately old house, full of the 
savor of well-preserved antiquity ; no such 
grand old trees as those that girdled it ; no 
such treasures of pictures, plate, and furni- 
ture, as those with which it was filled; no 
such fertile fields and royal woods as those 
that stretched around it, far as the eye could 
reach, and no such view as that which could 
be gained by standing on its southern ter- 
race. For the dead and gone Cavalier who 
frst selected this site for his future home, 
must have owned something of an artist’s 
eye, and an artist’s love of the beautiful. 


At least he had placed his new eyry on the 
most commanding height of all the undulat- 
ing country, crowning a lofty hill, like some 
Rhineland castle, while at its feet rolled the 
most beautiful of all our beautiful southern 
streams — that lovely Ayre, which, sweep- 
ing down through all the rich lowlands and 
fertile plains, never loses the crystal pu- 
rity of its mountain birthright, until it is 
whelmed in the vast Atlantic. 

Standing on the terrace of Seyton House, 
it would be hard to say how many miles lay 
spread out like a panorama before the gaz- 
er’s eye — miles of green slope and hashing 
water, of graceful hills and cultivated val- 
leys, of waving woods and distant moun- 
tains, of all things fair and dainty ; and beau- 
tiful it seemed, as the April sunlight rested 
on them, bringing out the delicate emerald of 
early spring, the clouds of tinted blossom, 
the dickering vicissitudes of light and shad- 
ow, and the crystal depths of the river that 
lay under the tender sky, as blue and peace- 
ful as an Italian lake. The broad lawn, 
the shrubberies and gardens of the house, 
stretched away on the other side, and made 
the approach very beautiful ; but here the 
ground shelved down abruptly in almost 
precipitous descent to the river-side. Tliere 
was a narrow foot-path which wound down 
the face of the blufip, but only those who 
were at once very sure-footed and very sure- 
headed did well to try it ; while, leaning 
over the balustrade, it was possible to drop 
a stone directly down, a distance of eighty 
feet, into the limpid waters below. A short 
distance up the stream lay a small island, 
which looked fair enough and picturesque 
enough to have been the haunt of fairies 
and elves unnumbered — an island half a mile 
in length, by a much narrower width, and a 
perfect wilderness of trees and flowers ; a 
place which was garlanded from end to end 
by jasmine and honeysuckle, and was a 
very popular resort for picnic-parties, who 
often came in force from a pretty town that 
not very far off nestled against the river, 
and bore its name. 

Now, when Mr. Blake came out on the 
terrace, he paused a moment, and looked 
round him. Not at the prospect — for he 
was familiar enough with that~but at the 


MAKING UP HIS MIND. 


7 


house, whose long French windows (the 
only modern improvement about it) opened 
on this side to the ground. The bright af- 
ternoon was all around and about, dazzling 
him with its glory, however, and it was not 
until a voice, musical enough for a woman’s, 
said, “ Here I am, Blake,” that he recog- 
nized the near neighborhood of his employ- 
er, Mr. Seyton. Even then he did not see 
him, but, shading his eyes with his hands, 
looked eagerly toward the house, in search 
of the familiar face that should have accom- 
panied those familiar tones. For they had 
lived together forty years, these two, in a 
companionship as intimate as their different 
positions would allow. It was a long time, 
and yet, to one of them at least, it seemed 
only yesterday when he had been a poor 
Irish boy, fresh from an immigrant-ship, 
without a shadow of character or recom- 
mendation, whom Mr. Seyton had taken in- 
to his employ out of the simple charity of 
‘his charitable heart. It had been a mere 
impulse of kindness with him, touched as 
he was by the boy’s haggard face and 
straightforward story, but perhaps the prov- 
erb concerning those who entertain angels 
unawares was never better illustrated. — 
Certainly the fine gentleman who stopped 
his horse, and listened to the ragged lad 
who rose up from a wayside stone to speak 
to him, did little, it would seem, which any 
Christian might not have done, yet our good 
deeds come back to us sometimes with the 
royal usury of heaven, and out of all the 
days of his life this day was the one which 
Gervase Seyton had most cause to bless, now 
that time had rolled on and made them both 
old men. He had been at that time loaded 
to the very earth with hereditary debts and 
liabilities — debts and liabilities which he 
saw no means of meeting, without being the 
first of his race to break in upon the domain 
set aside for entail — and it was this poor 
boy who seemed specially sent to clear off 
the incubus, without suffering a single rood 
of the old land to pass from the old name. 
Nobody had ever called Mr. Blake an over- 
seer, since the early days when he had been 
promoted to a position for which there is 
no exact American term, but which in Eng- 
land would have been at once steward and 


confidential agent ; and for nearly half a cen- 
tury the entire management of the Seyton 
estate had rested in his hands. The busi- 
ness talent he possessed was so great that 
he might have made a dozen fortunes for 
himself while he had been working in the 
Seyton interest, and making the Seyton 
property thrice as valuable as it ever was 
before; but there was' something almost 
pathetic in his dogged devotion to the per- 
son and interests of the man who had stood 
between himself and starvation; the inan 
who seemed to the rest of the world only a 
graceful, fine gentleman, somewhat given to 
the weaknesses of dilettante and valetudi- 
rian, but whose best points and highest vir- 
tues were perhaps known only to God and 
this one honest heart. 

“Here I am, Blake,” said that musical 
voice again, and this time with a decided 
petulance. “ What a time you have been, 
to be sure ! ” 

“I couldn’t help it, Mr Seyton,” an- 
swered the other, as he came toward the 
window from which the sound proceeded ; 
“ I rode over to see Mr. Gross about the 
bottom-land he lias been trespassing upon : 
so I didn’t get your message till about half 
an hour ago.” 

“ Did you come over at once, then ? ” 

“Yes, sir, I did, without losing a min- 
ute.” 

“That is to say, without your dinner. 
Just like you, Blake. I don’t think I ever 
knew any man before so careless of his di- 
gestion. Go, and make Mrs. Nesbitt give 
you something to eat.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Blake, with a 
smile, “ but I had rather not. It upsets me 
to eat out of my regular times, and I either 
take my dinner at twelve, by the stroke of 
the clock, or not at all. I would not know 
what to make of myself if I went to dining 
at this time of day.” 

“ It is not late excepting by a barbarian 
standard of time,” said Mr. Seyton. “ You 
had better take something.” 

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d 
rather not.” 

“ It’s not all the same to me, in the least 
— but I don’t suppose you care about that, 
as long as you have your own obstinate 


8 


MABEL LEE. 


way. I give you up, Blake — I give you up ! 
and you had better take a seat.” 

Mr. Blake was accustomed to being 
given up by his employer, so he submitted 
very quietly, and took the indicated seat. 
Then he fanned himself slowly with his 
broad straw hat, and waited for Mr. Seyton 
to speak. 

The room which he had thus uncere- 
moniously entered was very luxuriously 
furnished, but somewhat sombre in elfect, 
owing to the book-lined walls and dark oak- 
en panels ; a room abounding in depths of 
shadow, which even the bright April sun- 
shine could not disperse, and from out 
whose mellow twilight white statues and 
busts gleamed with an almost spectral ef- 
fect ; a room that was moderate in size and 
very perfect in appointment ; where Mr. 
Seyton spent the major part of his life, and 
which therefore reflected, as in a mirror, 
much of his character and habits — plainly 
the room of a scholar more elegant than 
profound, but of one who also possessed a 
keen appreciation and love of art, which was 
rare indeed in his day and generation — and 
a room that made a very eflfective back- 
ground for the two men sitting by the open 
window. 

They were curious contrasts, these two 
men ! — curious examples of the power of 
that hidden force which we call sometimes 
sympathy and sometimes attraction, and 
which, overleaping all barriers of diverse 
caste and diverse nature, had brought them 
together out of the world — equal in one 
sense, at least — as friends. 

The one so bluff and hearty, so tall and 
strongly built, with health and resolution, 
and intellect of a certain sort, too, in every 
line of the honest bronzed face, and every 
glance of the clear blue eyes ! — a man whom 
the veriest skeptic in human goodness and 
human honor might have trusted blindfold ; 
yet a man of whom knaves and swindlers 
would have steered clear by instinct ; a man 
who could sooner have translated Ohaldaic 
than concealed a feeling, or practised a sub- 
terfuge, and who, it was easy to see, pos- 
sessed to the full the courage and devotion 
and faithfulness that have made his race 
famous ; a man so full of vitality, that his 


mere presence made ordinary men ashamed 
of their dyspeptic stomachs and failing legs ; 
whose hands were hardened by the toil of 
half a century, but whose port was as up- 
right, whose stroke was as vigorous, and 
whose seat in the saddle was as sure, as ever 
at twenty-five. 

The other, so slender and pale and grace- 
ful, so evidently the finest of fine gentlemen, 
as he leaned back in the depths of his pur- 
ple-velvet chair, and looked at the sturdy 
yeoman, who sat before him. All his life 
long, people had called Mr. Seyton an ex- 
ceedingly handsome man, yet his features 
were almost too delicate for masculine beau- 
ty, and his figure was slight even to fragil- 
ity, while the feet outstretched before him 
seemed tiny enough to have worn Cinderel- 
la’s slipper, and the fair, blue-veined hands 
that rested on his knees looked as if noth- 
ing, save lace ruffles, should have fallen over 
them. Of its own type, however, his style 
was very perfect, for he was one of the men 
— and they are rare enough — upon whom 
the seal of refinement is so plainly set that 
no outward circumstances can aflfect or out- 
ward disguises conceal it. If Mr. Seyton 
had been dressed in homespun, and placed 
in a garret, he would have looked, if any 
thing, more strikingly patrician than here 
under the shadow of his own roof-tree. 
Just at present he wore a loose morning- 
coat of black velvet, and the soft rich fabric 
suited him as nothing else could possibly 
have done ; suited his transparent complex- 
ion and high-bred face ; suited the brown 
eyes that had once been reckoned very fas- 
cinating ; suited the silken curls of golden- 
brown hair — the hair that never grows 
gray, unless from sorrow or terror — suited 
his whole appearance, which seemed more 
that of some petit-maUre of the sixteenth 
century, than a commonplace man of the 
commonplace to-day. 

Finding at last that Mr. Seyton did not 
seem disposed to break the silence, Mr. 
Blake took that office upon himself. 

“ Since you have sent for me, sir, I sup- 
pose that you have made up your mind.” 

It was hesitatingly said, and there was 
plainly anxiety of some unusual sort in the 
gaze directed so earnestly toward Mr. Sev- 


MAKING UP HIS MIND. 


9 


ton — the gaze which Mr. Seyton did not 
meet. On the contrary, he looked straight 
ont of the window, with those dreamy 
brown eyes of his, as he answered, in the 
same low, musical tone : 

“ Well — yes, Blake. I think I may safe- 
ly say that I have made up my mind.” 

The other leaned eagerly forward. 

“Well, sir?” 

“Well, Blake — ” A moment’s pause, 
then Mr. Seyton suddenly flashed his eyes 
full upon those of his companion, with two 
short words, “ Philip Conway ! ” 

After that, there was a profound still- 
ness. 

Mr. Seyton was the first to speak. After 
a while he leaned forward, and laid his soft, 
white hand on the two hard rough ones that 
were locked together over Blake’s hat. 

“Old friend,” he said, with the winning 
gentleness that all his life long had wiled so 
many hearts, “I knew it is hard on you, hut 
try and forgive me. Try and understand 
me.” 

“Sir,” said Blake, hastily, “it isn’t that 
— it isn’t myself — it isn’t any thing but — ” 

There came a warmer pressure of the 
two hands that still obstinately held them- 
selves together. 

“ Do you think I don’t know what it 
is?” he asked. “Do you think I don’t 
know that you are considering me — the 
poor life that is not worth an hour’s pur- 
chase, remember — and these broad acres 
that yon have saved from the usurer’s 
clutches and the auctioneer’s hammer? ” 

“ I’m thinking of you — of nothing else,” 
answered the other, brusquely. “As for 
the land, I saved it for you, and if — and if 
you were not here, it might go — anywhere, 
to-morrow.’’ 

“You saved it for me, yes,” said Mr. 
Seyton, “ but in doing that, you also saved 
it for the name. We must remember that, 
both of us; and yet, my poor Blake! it 
would hurt you to see the fruits of your toil 
in spendthrift hands.” 

“ It would hurt me, sir, hut not an hour 
longer than it would hurt you.” 

“Well, it would not hurt me at all — 
after I was once laid down to rest in the 
graveyard yonder — even if Philip Conway 


could dissipate property which will be strict- 
ly entailed upon his heir.” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Blake, and his voice rose 
into something of solemnity — “ sir, I have 
told you that I am not thinking of the prop- 
erty. I tell you so again. I will even swear 
it, if you like.” 

“Then what are you thinking of? ” 

“ That I fear harm and evil from any one 
who hears the Conway name, or owns a 
drop of the Conway blood.” 

“ Harm I To whom ? ” 

“To you. To all who may now or here- 
after be brought into contact with the man 
you would make your heir.” 

“But what reason have you for saying 
this? Have you ever heard any thing 
against my nephew ? ” 

“Never, sir. But I know the blood.” 

“ So do I, for that matter, and distrust 
it as heartily as you can. But it is only 
fair to give the boy the benefit of a doubt. 
He is half Seyton, you know.” 

“Sir,” said Blake, whose earnestness 
seemed to deepen, “ the water in this vase 
is very pure and good now, but if you pour 
even so much as one drop of poison in it — 
would you like to drink it, then ? ” 

There is something very unanswerable 
in a sudden practical illustration, even if 
that illustration, as in the present instance, 
be not altogether a just one. Mr. Seyton 
was a good deal of a philosopher, and very 
fond of dealing in metaphor, but he found 
himself looking at the vase which had so 
well served his companion, without any an- 
swer ready, either to silence or rebuke. 
"Whereupon, Mr. Blake seized his opportu- 
nity, and went on : 

“Sir,” he said, “I know you too well to 
think I can offend you by speaking plainly. 
Of all the base and cruel men I have ever 
known, the Philip Conway, whom your sis- 
ter married, and who was killed in a duel 
for foul play at a gambling-hell, was the 
most base and most cruel. Sir — Mr. Seyton 
— you are fond of this old house of yours ; 
are you willing to put it into the hands of 
that man’s son?” 

“ It will be entailed.” 

“ What of that ? Are any of his blood 
likely to be more trustworthy ? ” 


10 


MABEL LEE. 


“You are the most thoroughly unreason- 
able fellow I ever knew,” said Mr. Seyton, 
somewhat indignantly. “I must make my 
will and renew the entail. You heard the 
doctor when he told me that this heart-dis- 
ease may carry me olf at any moment — and 
I must find an heir. Now, the choice rests 
between Philip Conway and — ” 

“ And your younger sister’s son, Cyril 
Harding. Why not take him ? ” 

Mr. Seyton shrugged his shoulders with 
a gesture half of petulance, half of disgust. 

“You have your own prejudices, Blake; 
grant me a little grace with mine. I feel as 
if I had taken an emetic whenever you men- 
tion that milksop.” 

“I never heard any harm, sir, of him or 
of his father.” 

“You never heard one of his father’s 
sermons, then. The hours of agony he used 
to inflict upon me ! And then he was such 
a confounded prig.” 

“ It does not follow that his son is, how- 
ever.” 

“Doesn’t it? So, then, it’s only poor 
Philip Conway’s gambling and bullying that 
are to be considered hereditary; not Tom 
Harding’s insufterable dulness and self-suffi- 
ciency.” 

“Dulness and self-sufficiency are — ” 

“ Cardinal virtues in your eyes just at 
present, no doubt,” interrupted Mr. Seyton, 
impatiently. “But, for my part, I tvould 
take the Conway vices in preference to the 
Harding virtues any day.” 

“Would you, sir? ” 

“Yes,” returned Mr. Seyton, “I would. 
It is entirely a question of taste, you see.” 

“ If you put it on that ground, sir, I 
have nothing more to say ; perhaps, indeed, 
I ought to beg pardon for having said so 
much.” 

The sturdy figure rose to its feet at those 
words, but, before it knew what was com- 
ing, felt itself pushed back into the chair by 
Mr. Seyton’s outstretched hand. 

“ Sit there, Blake, and don’t be foolish,” 
he said, half laughingly. “ Pardon, indeed ! 
Who has a better right than you to speak 
of an heir for the land you have saved ? 
Come, suppose I compromise with you ? 
Suppose — since you will not agree to a will 


in favor of Philip Conway, without know- 
ing him — that I send for him, and give us 
both an opportunity to know him ? ” 

Mr. Blake looked at his master a little 
doggedly. “I’m opposed to any thing that 
will bring Philip Conway under this roof,” 
he said, slowly. 

“ But why ? What are you fearing for ? 
My life? — your life ? — or the plate -closet ? ” 

“ What I’m fearing for, I could "not tell 
you, sir, if I wanted to ; but I wish I was as 
sure of my eternal salvation as that Philip 
Conway will bring harm to this house, if he 
ever lives to enter it.” 

Again the solemnity of his voice and 
manner — his earnestness, his almost passion 
— had their effect upon Mr. Seyton. He 
paused — and how ditferent would have been 
one life, at least, if he had paused to some 
purpose ! Ah ! it boots little in the great 
sum of human existence — such retrospection 
— or we might often, perhaps always, trace 
the windings of the thread of mortal agony 
or mortal crime to some such moment as 
this — some moment when the heart and the 
hand were alike free to choose the good or 
the ill, and when the one was deliberately 
put aside and the other accepted. 

For the impression made by Blake’s 
words was, after all, only momentary, and, 
when Mr. Seyton spoke again, it was rather 
coldly. 

“ I must repeat that I think you are un- 
reasonable, Blake ; but I will concede even 
thus much more. I must send for Philip 
Conway ; but I will also send for Cyril 
Harding, at the same time, so that I can 
fairly and dispassionately judge, not which 
I like best, but which will make the best 
master for this heritage that it has fallen 
upon me to bequeath. Does that satisfy 
you ? ” 

“If it must, it must, sir,” said Blake, 
with a deep sigh. “ You are very good to 
give into me so far. I can’t ask you to do 
any more, but — I can wish that Philip Con- 
way will break his neck before he ever 
crosses the threshold of Seyton House.” 

“Blake, Blake, I’m ashamed of you ! ” 

“ Indeed, then, sir, you needn’t be, for 
I’d never have said it, if there was even the 
least hope of any thing so lucky happening. 


MABEL LEE. 


11 


Oh, sir, there would he none of all this trou- 
ble if only — ” 

“Well, dear old fellow, if only what? ” 

The honest Celtic eyes wandered round 
the stately room, and the broad, deserted 
terrace, where never a child’s voice had 
echoed, or a child's foot danced in long 
years. Then he said, quickly : 

“If only your own son was standing by 
you now, to take up the burden when you 
lay it down.” 

Had the April sunshine suddenly grown 
dim, or were there quick, rushing tears in 
Mr. Seyton’s soft brown eyes? Yet he only 
laid his hand gently on the broad shoulder 
beside him, and after a moment said, qui- 
etly : 

“ Then wish that I had been more pa- 
tient, and another less fickle ; wish that the 
grave could give back its dead, and that I 
might see again the face it has held for 
thirty years.” 

The words had scarcely passed his lips 
when a flood of golden light poured sudden- 
ly across the room, the curtains of the win- 
dow were drawn back by a pair of hands 
that might have belonged to Titania, and 
the face^of which he had spoken looked in 
upon him. 


CHAPTER II. 

MABEL LEE. 

A FACE that was well worth the con- 
stancy of twice thirty years, so delicate, so 
beautiful, so almost spiritual was its loveli- 
ness. But not in the least a face that 
looked as if the grave had surrendered it. 
There were earth’s own tints in the exqui- 
site wild-rose complexion, in the sunny hair, 
and the quivering, childlike lips ; there was 
even earth’s own mischief gleaming in the 
deep, violet eyes. 

After one momentary start, Mr. Seyton 
held out his hand with a smile of welcome, 
than which no lover’s was ever brighter or 
warmer. 

“ Ah, Mab, my darling ! what brings you 
on us like a ghost or an elf? ” 


“ Like a fairy, if you please, godpapa,” 
answered the sweetest and clearest of girl- 
ish voices. “ Only fairies bestow such gifts 
as I have here for you — only you must guess 
what it is before I give it to you.” 

“ Not strawberries, Mab, surely ? ” 

“Ah, you wicked old conjurer! You 
saw the basket.” 

“ On my honor, no. I only guessed that 
because I thought it impossible. Farris has 
none yet.” 

“Show Mr. Farris this, then, with my 
compliments.” 

And the next moment a slight, blue- 
robed figure had flitted past Mr. Blake, and 
deposited on Mr. Seyton’s knee an offering 
that the fairies themselves might not have 
have been ashamed to bring — a graceful lit- 
tle basket, lined with moss, and filled to the 
brim with luscious strawberries. 

“Now, Mr. Blake, is it not pretty?” 
cried the young lady, appealing to her only 
convenient witness ; “ is it not pretty, and 
ought not Mr. Farris to be ashamed of him- 
self? It will be two weeks yet, godpapa, 
before you taste a strawberry from your 
own vines.” 

“ And where, in the name of all the fair- 
ies, did you find these, Mab? ” 

“ They were grown for the queen of the 
fairies’ own table; but I lifted them, and 
here they are.” 

“But do you know the penalty, pretty 
one ? ” 

“ Falling under her majesty’s power? I 
believe I should like that. Think of a 
moonlight flitting with a prince in a green- 
and-gold hunting suit. — Mr. Blake, would 
not that be better than being soberly mar- 
ried by Father Lawrence to my cousin Fran- 
cis, or — or to some one else just as stupid ? ” 

“I don’t know. Miss Mabel,” said Mr. 
Blake, with his genial laugh. “Would the 
prince bring you back again? If not, I vote 
for your cousin Francis, or some one else 
just as stupid.” 

“ I will tell Cousin Francis that,” said 
the girl, gayly ; “ but I shall wait for my 
prince, nevertheless. — Godpapa, I hope he 
will have eyes like your’s and hair that curls 
as softly, and, above all, your brow. It ia 
perfect.” 


12 


MABEL LEE. 


“Is it, Mab?” 

“ Quite.” 

And in token of approbation she leaned 
over the back of his chair, and kissed it. 

They made a pretty picture, those two, 
as they were thus grouped together in the 
soft, mellow gloom, and, oddly enough, that 
little scene came back to Mr. Blake’s mind, 
whenever he thought of the chain of events 
which dated a beginning on this afternoon. 
Long afterward — when the mere thought of 
it brought hot tears to his eyes — he remem- 
bered how lovely Mabel Lee had looked, as 
she bent over her godfather’s chair that 
evening. One rounded arm, from which 
the loose sleeve had fallen back, was thrown 
into relief by the rich purple velvet against 
which she leaned, her light muslin dress 
enveloped her in a sort of cloud, her bright 
golden hair crowned her like a diadem of 
glory, and her eyes, that were- deep and 
true and tender as those of any virgin saint, 
rested fondly on the head she had all her 
life been taught to love and honor. 

It was Mabel Lee’s aunt — her father’s 
only sister — who, having once been eng.-iged 
to Mr. Seyton, had jilted him, nobody knew 
liow, to marry another man, nobody knew 
why, and die very speedily — some people 
said of a broken heart ; others, of neglect 
and ill usage. However that was, she died, 
and the gossips had never again need to 
couple Gervase Seyton’s name with that of 
any living woman. He had not diffused his 
affections very widely before this ; but he 
now narrowed them down to the brother 
of his lost love, and, after a while, to the 
girl wlio bore her name, and seemed to have 
inherited the beauty which had made her 
famous — the girl upon whose entrance into 
life there rested a dark cloud of terror and 
sorrow. For, shortly before Mabel’s birth, 
her father, acting against Mr. Seyton’s 
urgent advice, invested largely in a speculat- 
ing bubble of some friend, who promised to 
make not one, but a dozen fortunes for him, 
and was rewarded as dupes of his class j 
generally are — that is, one fine day there 
came the inevitable crash ; the scheme proved 
a swindle, the friend a scoundrel, and Mr. 
Lee, overwhelmed by ruin, became insane. 
Not being closely watched, he found a pistol. 


loaded it, locked himself up with it, and 
when his wife, who had been absent, re- 
turned, she found his brains spattering the 
walls of her chamber. 

This was the tragedy which ushered 
Mabel into the world; and it was Mr. Sey- 
ton who named her at the hurried baptism 
which took place just after her birth, while 
her mother lay raving of the awful horror 
so lately enacted. Nobody thought the 
frail infant would live, but, nevertheless, she 
did — lived to grow into a child so exqui- 
sitely lovely that people held their breath 
when looking at her — into a maiden so 
peerlessly beautiful that high and low alike 
yielded her homage. There was no dis- 
senting voice about her beauty, as there is 
about the beauty of most women ; and no- 
body was ever heard to hint that it could 
be improved. Neither did it move anybody 
to envy, for in all the country-side there 
was no one so well loved as this girl, the 
pathos of whose mournful birth some people 
thought they saw reflected in her eyes — ■ 
eyes which might be grave or gay, laughing 
or serene, but which, in any mood, never 
lost a certain deep shadow of sadness that 
rested in their depths — such a shadow as 
that which, according to the Old-World 
superstition, marks those specially set aside 
for misfortune, either in life or death. 

Said Mabel at last: 

“ Godpapa, you are talking business 
with Mr. Blake, were you not? Don’t let 
me interrupt you. I will go out on the 
terrace, and you can tell me when you are 
finished.” 

“We finished before you came in, lady- 
bird.” answered her godfather, smiling. — 

“ That is, unless this obstinate old fellow 
has something else to say. — Eh, Blake ? ” 

“No, sir,” answered Mr. Blake, bringing 
his attention back to the subject under dis- 
cussion, and alnfost unconsciously heaving 
a deep sigh— “ no, sir ; if your mind’s made 
up, that’s enough. All I have to say now is, 
that I hope you may never live to regret it.” 

'•’"Anglic ^ — you hope I may live to re- 
gret it, and you may live to triumph over 
me?” 

Mr. Blake shook his head as he rose, 
still holding his hat in one hand. 


MABEL LEE. 


13 


‘You know better than that, sir. I 
hope with all my heart I may be the falsest 
prophet that ever spoke ; but I still think I 
will prove a true one. Remember that, sir ; 
I still believe in my instinct.” 

“ Never a doubt of it,” said Mr. Seyton, 
good-humoredly. “But I tell you what I 
mean to do, Blake. I know you have a 
great respect for Mabel’s judgment. I mean 
to consult her.” 

“Do you, sir?” said Mr. Blake, with a 
comical glance at the childlike creature 
before him. “ Do you ? Then take my 
advice, and don’t show Miss Mabel the like- 
ness you have of Mr. Philip Conway.” 

“ Why, Mr. Blake ? ” asked Miss Mabel, 
a little curiously. 

“ Why, ma’am ? Faith, and only because 
you’d never be a woman if you didn’t like 
him the better for his handsome face.” 

“Mr. Blake, you are a slanderer! I 
refer you to my cousin, Mr. Francis Nowell, 
for a refutation of that.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Mr. Blake, with a some, 
what grim chuckle. “ I know you don’t 
fancy Mr. Nowell overmuch; but I for one 
can’t see his good looks, and I doubt if 
you’d see them either, by the side of this 
picture Mr. Seyton’s got.” 

“ Grodpapa, show it to me this instant.” 

“No, no,” said Mr. Seyton, laughing. 
“ I must not bribe your judgment, or Blake 
would never believe in it. You shall see it 
after I have heard your opinion. — Blake, 
are you going? ” 

“ I must, sir. I have to see Martin yet 
this evening, and give him directions about 
replanting the cotton to-morrow.” 

“ Pshaw 1 there’s no hurry about that. 
Stay and have a sociable smoke.” 

Mr. Blake only smiled. The Seyton 
estate would never have been what it was, 
if he had yielded to the temptations to 
idleness and procrastination ever held out 
to him by this indolent master of his. 

“Not this evening, thank you, sir,” he 
said. “ But I will see you again to-morrow. 
— Miss Mabel, I hope you left your mother 
and Miss Constance well? ” 

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Blake. 
You must call and see mamma soon. She 
was saying, only the other day, that she 


would like to have your advice about — about 
the asparagus-beds, I think it was.” 

“ The asparagus-beds are more in Mr. 
Farris’s line,” said Mr. Blake, smiling; “ but 
I may be able to give her a hint or two, and 
ril call to-morrow.” 

Then, bidding them both good-evening 
he stepped through the window, and went 
back to the front of the house, where he 
mounted Brown Jerry, without a word to 
the servant holding him — an occurrence 
in itself remarkable — and was slowly riding 
away, when he heard his name eagerly 
called by Mabel Lee’s voice. 

“Mr. Blake, Mr. Blake! one moment, if 
you please.” 

He wheeled round at once, and she came 
lightly bounding over the lawn toward him, 
her pretty fringed scarf floating in the 
breeze, and in her hand the basket of straw- 
berries she had brought to Mr. Seyton. 

“ I am sorry to stop you for such a little 
thing,” she said, as she readied his side, and 
paused, slightly out of breath. “ I am afraid 
you will think me very foolish, but you did 
•not taste my strawberries, and they are the 
very first of the season. You must take a 
few, if only to please me.” 

He knew what she meant — that she had 
forgotten to offer them before, and feared 
he would think her too careless of him, and 
too careful of her rare fruit — so he made 
none of the demur in which a coarser na- 
ture might have indulged. He stooped 
down, and took two or three fragrant clus- 
ters out of the basket she held up to him. 

“ This is more than enough. Miss Mabel,” 
he said, smiling into her soft, earnest eyes. 
“I only care for them when they are of 
your growing, and great credit they do you, 
too. Thank you, very kindly. Good-even- 
ing, ma’am.” 

“Good-evening, Mr. Blake,” she said, 
and drew aside to let him pass. 

When he had ridden half-way down the 
lawn, he turned in his saddle to look back 
after her. The sun was just setting, and his 
last level rays gilded the slender, girlish 
figure, as she walked slowly along the ter- 
race, still swinging the little basket in her 
hand. 

“ An angel, if ever there was one,” he 


14 


MABEL LEE. 


muttered to himself. “ God bless her ! God 
bless her! ” 

Are such benedictions ever unheard? 
But then — God’s modes of blessing are not 
.ike ours. We would do well always to 
bear that in mind. 


CHAPTER III. 

MABEL GIVES ADVICE. 

“Now, godpapa,” said Mabel, coming 
back to the window where Mr. Seyton still 
sat, “I will tell you what I want you to 
do.” 

“ You have only to speak and be obeyed, 
my violet-eyed darling.” 

She knew that very well, but the knowl- 
edge that would have rendered many women 
exigeant and unreasonable, only made her 
so exquisitely careful and moderate in all 
her requests, that Mr. Seyton was often 
very hard put to discover opportunities for 
the lavish indulgence he would have de- 
lighted to shower on her. She only smiled, 
now, and lifted up her hand, with a pretty 
air of command. 

“Well, then, it is our sovereign will and 
pleasure that you order the boat to be 
made ready, and take me home by water. 
A row will do you good this lovely after- 
noon. You are not looking well, godpapa.” 

“Am I not, sweetheart? We’ll try 
your prescription, but not just now. You 
must spend the evening with me.” 

Mabel shook her head. 

“ I wish I could ; but I promised mam- 
ma to be back in time for tea.” 

“She will not mind your staying.” 

“ Perhaps not. But I promised.” 

That logic was evidently unanswerable. 
So Mr. Seyton smiled, and gave up the 
point. 

“ Ring the bell, then,” he said, “ and give 
your orders.” 

The bell was rung, and the orders given, 
and in a few moments the boat was reported 
ready. “Take your master’s cloak down,” 
said Mabel. — “ And novv get that likeness, 
godpapa, that Mr. Blake spoke of. We 
must take it along.” 


“ What for, Mab ? ” 

“ What for ? Why, because you want to 
ask my advice, you know, and, after you 
have asked my advice, I want to see it.” 

To hear and to obey were indeed synon- 
ymous things with Mr. Seyton where his ^ 
goddaughter was concerned. He rose at 
once, and crossed the floor to a little Floren- 
tine cabinet, very quaint, very beautiful, 
and chief among his virtuoso treasures. 

“I don’t know what induced me to put 
the thing here,” he said, when Mabel fol- 
lowed, and looked over his shoulder, “ for I 
only keep valuables in this. But here it is.” 

In an aromatic drawer of fragrant san- 
dal-wood, side by side with old coins, rare 
Italian cameos, half-effaced medals, and the 
countless other trifles, so priceless in the 
collector’s eyes, so valueless in those of any 
one else, lay an oblong velvet case, which 
Mr. Seyton meditatively took up and looked 
at. 

“ I wonder what induced me to put it 
here? ” he repeated, as if the question puz- 
zled him. “ I am sure I don’t- value Philip 
Conway’s likeness in the least ; and unless 
— yes, that must be it, Mabel.” 

“ What must be it, godpapa ? ” 

“It is so exquisitely painted,” said Mr. 
Seyton, with a deprecating glance at the 
velvet case. “It is so exquisitely painted ! 
That must have been the cause. I have 
never before seen such softness and power 
of touch combined on ivory. I wish I knew 
the artist, Mab ; he should paint your face, 
my darling.” 

“Should he? Well, I’m glad you don’t 
know him, then. But, pray, don’t stand 
there, talking about the picture in that way, 
godpapa, or my curiosity will mount so high 
that I shall certainly look at it, and I don’t 
want to afford Mr. Blake that triumph.” 

“I shall put that out of the question,” 
said Mr. Seyton,* and he dropped the case 
into one of his coat-pockets. “Now let us be 
off, if I have to take you home before tea.” 

“But the cabinet! You are leaving it 
unlocked.” 

Mr. Seyton turned back with a start, 
and closed the inlaid doors upon his beloved 
treasures. “Do you believe in omens, 
Mab ? ” he asked, as he did so. 


MABEL GIVES ADVICE. 


15 


“Well, yes,” said Mabel, candidly. “I 
think I do ; although Father Lawrence says 

I must not.” 

“If I did,” said Mr. Seyton, slowly, as 
he fitted the sides into one another, “I 
should certainly think that Philip Conway 
was destined to be the master of Seyton 

II ouse ; for of one thing I am sure — ” and he 
turned the key in its lock with a sharp snap 
— “ Cyril Harding’s face would never have 
gained admission to my Florentine cabinet.” 

“ Who is Cyril Harding, godpapa? ” 

“ I wdll tell you after a while, lady-bird. 
At present we must go down to the boat.” 

They crossed the room together — a 
subtile likeness in their delicate, high-bred 
beauty making them almost look like father 
and daughter — and came out upon the ter- 
race. 

The sun had set, but the broken masses 
of gorgeously-tinted clouds, which he had 
left to mark “ the bright track of his fiery 
car,” were so faithfully reflected in the clear 
waters of the river, the air was so heavy 
with fragrance, and the tender purple mist 
of the spring-time hung so softly over the 
distant uplands, that his absence left noth- 
ing to be regretted. Yet Mabel looked 
around a little apprehensively, as they 
turned into the path which led across the 
lawn down to the water’s edge. 

“Two miles,” she said. “lam afraid, 
godpapa, you will be very late getting 
back.” 

“And, please your majesty, suppose I 
don’t mean to come back ? ” 

“ You mean to spend the evening with 
us? How delightful! What a charming 
game of piquet you and mamma can have 1 ” 

“And how finely you can sing to us I ” 

“I think it is so strange you like music 
when you are playing cards,” she said, medi- 
tatively. “ Now Cousin Francis always says 
it disturbs him.” 

“ Cousin Francis is — ” 

“A lawyer. I don’t think we need say 
any thing more, when we want to express 
stupidity on every subject not connected 
with that profound and soul - depressing 
science. Godpapa, I am so glad you are not 
a lawyer.” 

“I am not sorry myself, Mab.” 


“I suppose they are good for some 
things,” pursued Mabel, with a little peni- 
tent sigh ; “but being agreeable is certainly 
not one of them. Godpapa, what is Mr 
Philip Conway? ” 

Mr. Seyton laughed slightly, and 
shrugged his shoulders in the graceful, 
indolent fashion he had learned in Paris 
years before. 

“That is more than I can tell you, bon- 
nibelle. But I rather fancy he belongs to 
the wide ranks of social condottieriy 

Bonnibelle looked a little puzzled ; but 
before she could ask any questions, they 
came to the boat. 

It was a graceful and well - fashioned 
little craft, built according to Mr. Seyton’s 
own directions, and easily propelled by one 
oar, although two rowers were now lying 
back in their seats, waiting their master’s 
arrival. Stalwart young boatmen they were, 
whose smooth black skins contrasted effec- 
tively with their white trousers and striped 
shirts, the “ two best ” of a twelve-oar boat, 
which was used on state occasions. 

“ Where are the cushions, Austin ? ” 
asked the master, as became forward. And 
both the boatmen sprang to their feet. 
“ Are you sure the bottom is quite dry ? ” 

“Here’s the cushions, sir,” said Austin, 
bringing them from the bank ; “ and yes, 
sir, the bottom’s as dry as can be. — A little 
closer, Nat. — All right now. Miss Mabel.” 

Mabel stepped in, followed by her god- 
father, and the next moment they were 
gliding off* with that quick, steady, easy 
movement which only first-class oarsmen 
can attain — the swift, sure stroke cleaving 
the water right and left, and leaving show- 
ers of rainbow-spray in their wake. 

“ How delightful I ” said Mabel, taking 
off* her hat, and letting the fresh river-breeze 
toss her fair hair according to its own ca- 
price. “ What a pleasure it is to be rowed 
by Austin and Nat ! Godpapa, you ought 
really to present them both with a medal, 
in testimony of their skill.” 

“You may, if you want to, Mab,” said 
Mr. Seyton, with a smile. “ I suspect they 
would value it more from you than from me. 
— Wouldn’t you, boys ? ” 

At which the boys touched their hats, 


16 


MABEL LEE. 


and answered that “any thing from Miss 
Mabel was always acceptable.” 'Then Mr. 
Seyton said the medals should be struck off 
with a water-nymph on one side, and a pair 
of oars crossed on the other. Whereupon 
Mabel laughed gayly, Austin and Nat seemed 
yerj much gratified, and the subject was 
changed. 

“ Now,” said Mr. Seyton, as they reached 
the lower point of the island, and were glid- 
ing along past its beautifully-fringed shore, 
“ now, Mabel, let me remind you that I 
mean to ask your advice on a very impor- 
tant subject.” 

“ I’m all attention, godpapa.” 

“ Tie on your hat, then. You will take 
cold.” 

Mabel knew there was no danger of that, 
but she tied it on nevertheless, and, after 
the blue ribbons were made fast under her 
chin, looked up with a smile that meant, 
“ Go on.” 

“ In one word, then,” said Mr. Seyton, 
gravely, “ I am going to make my will.” 

Mabel started. There is something very 
suggestive in that one simple word, and all 
the blood which had been flushing her 
cheeks rushed away at once to her heart. 

“Godpapa!” she said, with something 
like a gasp. 

But he only smiled tenderly at her. 

“ There is no cause to look so startled, 
my bonny flower,” he answered. “ No man 
dies an hour sooner for making straight his 
worldly affairs, and leaving his last com- 
mands in black and white. I should indeed 
have fulfilled this duty long ago, but for one 
thing. Can you guess what that has been ? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ If I were a free man, Mabel — free, that 
is, as other men are, to leave my property 
to whom I choose, without any obligation 
of honor binding it and me — do you not 
know to whom that old house up yonder 
would go? ” 

Again Mabel shook her head. It was evi- 
dent that she did not conceive his meaning. 

“Ah, my darling,” said the fine gentle- 
man, with a rush of emotion in his voice, 
“ I would make you the richest heiress in 
all the country-side; I would dower you 
like a princess ; I would set you up as mis- 


tress of all this fair, wide heritage — if only I 
dared! 0 Mabel! you can never know what 
a struggle it has been to me to take it away 
from my heart’s delight — from the only 
thing on earth I love, and give it to stran- 
gers.” 

Mabel’s soft hand stole into his without a 
word, until she said, simply, “ But, godpa- 
pa, I don’t want it, and I am not a Seyton.” 

“No,” he said, with a deep sigh, “you 
are not a Seyton.” 

Then there was a pause of several min- 
utes, only broken by the splash of the water, 
the dip of the oars, and the low hum of in- 
sect-life from the island, whose drooping 
willows almost touched them as they 
passed. 

At last Mr. Seyton spoke again, quite 
abruptly : 

“ It seems as if it would be easier to bear 
if I had only possessed no option in the mat- 
ter; if I had not belonged to the unlucky 
thirds in our order of succession — for you 
know the obligation of honor which is bind- 
ing upon us, do you not, Mabel ? ” 

“ Yes,” Mabel said, she knew it, as who, 
indeed, did not know that singular tradition 
and custom ? 

“You know how the matter stands then. 
I have either to renew the entail, or to be 
the first of my name who has broken the 
trust of the dead. Another sort of dishonor 
I might have faced for you, Mabel, but not 
that. I could not resolve to meet the men, 
who went before me, with the brand of such 
a betrayal upon me ! I could not even 
imagine that an inheritance so left would 
bring other than harm to you.” 

She pressed closer to him, and laid her 
tinted cheek down on his shoulder. 

“ Godpapa, I am sure of it.” 

“Yes, so am I. And you will not re- 
member hereafter how much it was in my 
power to have given you, and how little I 
did give? You will not think hardly of it, 
or doubt the love of the old man who would 
pour out his heart’s blood for you? ” 

“Oh, hush! hush! You kill me when 
you talk so.” 

And indeed a perfect April shower was 
raining from the violet eyes down upon the 
velvet morning-coat. 


jrfABEL GIVES ADVICE. 


17 


** Then I will not say another word ; but 
you must stop crying. You know we can 
none of us bear to see that. We feel as if 
we had not been half tender enough with 
our flower. Mabel, do you not know how 
you are paining me ? ” 

The tone was enough to dry Mabel’s 
tears at once, but she twined her arms round 
him before she spoke again, and then it was 
only to say, in a half-choked voice : 

“ Nothing more like that, godpapa — 
nothing more like that.” 

“ Not another word. Only a discussion 
of the claims of Philip Conway now. Shall 
I show you his likeness to cheer you into 
interest ? ” 

“ I believe not. Mr. Blake would never 
trust my opinion then.” 

“ You know who he is ? ” 

“ Your nephew, is he not? I have heard 
mamma speak of your sister who married a 
Captain Conway.” 

“ Yes, my nephew. This same sister’s 
son. Poor Adela ! She has had a hard 
life. I hope he makes amends for some of 
it.” After a moment’s silence, he contin- 
ued : 

“Now, Mabel, you must understand 
that Conway was not an honorable man; 
he was, in fact, an unprincipled adventurer, 
and that there is natural reason to fear that 
his son may be like him. Blake thinks 
there is every reason to fear it, and warns 
me solemnly that nothing but evil ever 
came of the Conway blood. Blake is anx- 
ious that, in entailing the Seyton estate, I 
should entail it,* not upon Philip Conway 
and his heir, but upon Cyril Harding and 
his heir.” 

Mabel was becoming interested. She 
raised her head, and repeated the question 
she had asked once before: “ Who is Cyril 
Harding ? ” 

“Cyril Harding,” answered Mr. Seyton, 
concisely, “is the son of my younger sister, 
who married a clergyman of that name. I 
have told you that Philip Conway was an 
unprincipled adventurer; I must also add 
he was the most fascinating man of his day, 
and, in telling you that the reverend Mr. 
Harding was the embodiment of strict re- 
ligious principle, it is only fair to add that 
2 


he was likewise the embodiment .of dulness 
and bigotry. Whether his son is like him 
or not, I cannot say ; but the presumptive 
evidence that he may be so is at least as 
strong as in the case of Philip Conway. 
Now, the point at issue between Blake and 
myself is simply this, which of these two 
shall I choose for an heir ? ” 

Mabel shrank slightly at the last word. 
She did not answer for a minute or two. 
M^hen at last she did speak, it was quite 
slowly: 

“ It scarcely seems to me, godpapa, as 
if mere presumptive evidence ought to 
weigh against anybody ; or if it is just to 
judge the son by the father. If — if this 
were put aside, which of your nephews 
would you be inclined to choose ? ” 

“ There is not a doubt on that subject,” 
said Mr. Seyton, with a slight grimace. 
“ Even as it is, Mab, my preference is all on 
the Conway side. Adela has always been 
my favorite sister, and, despite his being 
such a scamp, I liked her husband heartily. 
Besides, she is the elder. As a matter of 
taste — but then, you see, that is the rub! 
In a decision of this kind, I have no right 
to consult my individual taste. I have t(> 
think of the generations to come, of the 
name, and of these ” — he pointed to Austin 
and Nat — “in choosing my successor.” 

“Yes,” said Mabel, and ber eyes ranged 
thoughtfully over the broad Seyton lands 
which lay on either side of them — “yes, I 
understand. But, then, godpapa, how can 
you possibly decide rightly without knowing 
any thing of either of them ? ” 

“That is the very difficulty I propose to 
obviate,” said Mr. Seyton. “ I promised 
poor, faithful Blake to send for both of 
them, and judge dispassionately between 
them. But, after all, that is pretty much 
of an empty form, you know, Mab. They 
will both be on their good behavior, and, 
unless some accident reveals the different 
characters, I shall not be likely' to gaiu 
much knowledge that can beneflt me.” 

Mabel shook her head very sagely. 

“I think most people show something, 
at least, of their characters very soon, god- 
papa; and then I can’t help wondering 
which one needs the inheritance most.” 


18 


MABEL LEE. 


“There is no doubt of that, either,” Mr. 
Seyton answered. “The Hardings are very 
substantially well off, while the Conways — 
ah, my poor Adela! That is another diffi- 
culty, Mab. If I do send for her son, how 
on earth can I ever disappoint her — life has 
been such hard lines to her ! — by sending 
him away empty-handed ? ” 

Mabel looked up with all her heart in 
her eyes. Those few words — “ life has been 
such hard lines to her ” — told a very pitiful 
story that her fancy filled in at once. 

“Godpapa,” she said, abruptly, “if I 
were you, I would not mind Mr. Blake. I 
would do what is right. I would make Mr. 
Conway the heir. Every thing you have men- 
tioned is for, instead of against, him, unless 
the character of his father. We know that 
many good men have had bad fathers, and — 
and if I were you, I would do what is right.” 

“But his father’s character is a great 
deal against him, Mab. The most fair- 
minded person in the world would admit 
that. You don’t know, you can’t even im- 
agine, what a man he was. I tell you, if 
the son should be like him, it would be my 
solemn duty to do a temporary evil, that 
lasting good might come of it.” 

“Godpapa, I don’t believe that good 
ever did come out of evil, or ever will.” 

“In short, you are transformed, after 
the manner of yonr sex, into a thorough-go- 
ing partisan.” 

“Yes,” she said, nodding gayly, “ I am 
all for the Conway interest. You asked my 
advice, you know, so I have a right to give 
it, and it is this — take Philip Conway.” 

Her godfather did not answer. He only 
smiled a little, and then sat stroking her 
hair, while his eyes were absently fastened 
on the water. Indeed, he remained thus so 
long that Mabel at last grew impatient; 

“ Am I discharged from the office of 
counsellor, godpapa? ” she asked. 

He started slightly, and looked round. 

“ Is it the likeness you want? ” 

“Your intuition does you credit, sir. It 
is the likeness.” 

He took it out, and handed it to her. 

She had not even instinct enough con- 
cerning the future to make her hesitate for 
one moment before opening it. Thanking 


him with a smile, she pressed the spring, 
and Philip Conway’s face looked up at her. 

Mr. Blake had kept to the letter of the 
truth regarding it ; for a face half so hand- 
some she had never seen before. It was 
very finely outlined, with a clear, dark com- 
plexion, and possessed more than one mark 
of the Seyton lineage, although the spirit 
and force which stamped it was something 
quite different from the fair, languid Seyton 
type. Yet, even in this pictured semblance, 
it was easy to see that the chief attraction 
of the face did not rest either in grace of 
feature or harmony of coloring. The large, 
dark eyes were very perfect in size and 
color, but their fascination was quite apart 
from the one or the other, and might rather 
have been found in their wonderful power 
of expressing the two extremes of anger or 
tenderness. The gaze lingered on the well- 
cut mouth, less because no classic model 
was ever more faultless, than because there 
was something in the curve of the lips — de- 
fiantly compressed as they were — which 
proved how winning their smile could be 
when it came. The nose was straight — al- 
most severely regular ; the eyebrows hori- 
zontal and slightly knit ; while a crest of 
black curls gave finish to the forehead, that 
w^as else somewhat lacking in loftiness and 
amplitude. Altogether it was a singularly 
attractive face — a face without any tokens 
of degrading vice or sensual appetites, but 
a face on which indomitable pride and in- 
domitable resolution were plainly stamped 
— the face of a man evidently accustomed to 
make his own will the arbiter of his own 
fate, and still more evidently accustomed to 
ride rough-shod over any obstacles placed 
in his way. 

But Mabel saw little of this and heeded 
less. When at last she looked up from 
those magical eyes, there was something in 
the scene and the hour which she never for- 
got to her dying day. 

The broad river, the deep shadows, the 
gathering twilight over the distant hills, the 
last faint, broken cloud-reflections in the 
water, the fringed banks, and the swift cur- 
rent, hastening on — on — on — still on, bear- 
ing its freight of living water down to the 
vast depths of ocean, and also bearing- 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


19 


though she knew it not — all quiet and peace 
and happiness out of her life, never, for 
many a long day, to revisit it again. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 

“Can you tell me, sir, which of these 
roads leads to Seyton House ? ” 

Mr. Blake wheeled Brown Jerry about 
like lightning, and faced the man who had 
asked this most unexpected question. 

A slender, elegant horseman, dressed in 
a dark-gray travelling-suit, riding a well- 
built chestnut, and bearing about him that 
nameless air of refinement and style which 
is only given by much association with the 
world — a man whose singularly handsome 
face was his least title to distinction ; who 
might have been any age between twenty- 
one and thirty-five ; who looked as much at 
ease there on the sultry cross-roads as if he 
had risen from a drawing-room sofa, and 
who smiled a slight smile of amusement, as 
he repeated his inquiry, slightly altered : 

“ Excuse me, but I have really forgotten 
some directions that were given me this 
morning, and I would be glad to know by 
which of these roads I am most likely to 
reach Seyton House.” 

Neither in question nor manner was 
there any thing save gentlemanly courtesy; 
and, considering this, there was some ground 
for his evident surprise at the grim stare 
which was, for the time, his only answer. 
Then Mr. Blake nerved himself, and jerked 
forth a reply : 

“ Either road, sir, will lead you to Sey- 
ton House. If you want the shortest, take 
the left ; if you want the best, take the 
right.” 

The stranger looked at both, smiled 
slightly again, and then turned his horse’s 
head. 

“ I have but one principle in all my jour- 
neys,” he said, quietly — “ the principle that 
speed must always be subordinate to com- 
fort. Thanking you for your information, 
sir, I take the right.” 

With an inward growl, Mr. Blake drew 


aside to let him pass, scarcely deigning to 
return his salute, and then stood quite still 
looking after him. 

“ Philip Conway’s own face ! Philip 
Conway’s own figure ! Philip Conway’s 
own devilishly beguiling tongue,” he mut- 
tered to himself. “ God forgive me, but 
how I would like to throttle him before he 
ever reaches Seyton House ! ” 

“ A surly old boor,” thought the stran- 
ger, who was riding away. “ I wonder if 
he may be regarded as a specimen of the 
aboriginal inhabitants of this interesting 
region? He seemed decidedly struck by 
my appearance — not favorably, however. 
I really cannot flatter myself that it was 
favorable. What the deuce could have 
been the matter? Have I lost my nose, or 
has any calamity befallen my hat?” 

He investigated his nose, and, finding 
it in its usual condition, removed his hat. 
He was still examining this with quite a 
contemplative curiosity, when there came a 
clatter of horses’ hoofs in the rear, and, be- 
fore he could turn in his saddle. Brown 
Jerry was reined up beside him. 

“Sir,” sdid Mr. Blake, with a great gulp 
in his voice, “ I beg your pardon for my inci- 
vility a moment ago. I ought to be glad to 
do a service for any guest of Seyton House, 
and so, if you don’t object. I’ll see you on 
your road.” 

“ Object ! ” said the gentleman, with a' 
smile. “Indeed, no. I have lost my road 
often enough to-day, to be glad of such an 
olfer. But, unless your way lies in that di- 
rection — ” 

“ My way lies in any direction that my 
duty does, Mr. Conway.” 

The stranger turned round, and gave a 
quick glance of astonishment. 

“ So you know me ? ” he said. 

“ Sorra a doubt of that” — with a quiver 
of ill-concealed bitterness in hia voice — 
“ sorra a doubt of that, when I knew your 
father before you,” 

Philip Conway — ^for it was he — looked 
at the speaker for a moment in silence. 
Then the mist of doubt cleared from his 
face, a flash of recognition came into the 
dark eyes, and, drawing off his glove, he ex 
tended his hand. 


20 


MABEL LEE. 


“ There is but one man to whom I can 
be speaking,” he said, “that is my mother’s 
old friend, Patrick Blake.” 

Such a recognition from any one else 
» would not have failed to win the warm Irish 
heart thus addressed; but if Philip Conway 
had worn the form and smiled the smile of 
the star of the morning, he could not have 
done more than momentarily dispel Mr. 
Blake’s deeply-rooted distrust. That un- 
compromising person did not refuse the 
hand that was olfered him — the hand that 
was delicate and well-shaped as Mr. Sey- 
ton’s own, though supple with nervous ener- 
gy and muscular strength — but he dropped 
it almost immediately, before he unclosed 
his lips to answer, stiffly : 

“Yes, sir, I’m Patrick Blake; Miss 
Adela’s old friend and servant, if Miss Adela 
is good enough to remember me. I hope 
you left her well ? ” 

“Quite well,” Mr. Conway answered; 
a little coldly, perhaps, for a duller man 
than himself might have felt the chill of the 
other’s manner. “ That is, she was well 
when I heard from her last ; but I have 
not seen her for some tim*e. Slie is 
abroad.” 

“ Abroad ! Do you mean in the old 
country, sir ? ” 

“Yes, in one of the old countries. She 
is in Paris, where we have both been living 
for several years.” 

“ And yon left her there alone ? ” 

Mr. Conway laughed slightly. 

“My mother is quite capable of taking 
care of herself,” he said. “Besides, I left 
her at her own request. My uncle sent for 
me, as I suppose you are aware. By-the-by, 
I hope he is well ? ” 

“ Very well,” answered Mr. Blake, 
briefly. And then the conversation dropped. 

They rode on in complete silence for 
some time, until Mr. Conway spoke again, 
rather weariedly: 

“ This road has seemed to stretch out 
interminably all day. How far are we now 
from Seyton House? ” 

“Two good miles, sir; but you would 
have cut off one, if you had taken the other 
road.” 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 


It was a shrug more satiric and less indo- 
lent than Mr. Seyton’s. 

“ Better bear the ills we know, than fly 
to those we know not of. — Eh, Mazeppa? 
Cheer up, though, old fellow! We have 
nearly reached your quarters of rest and re- 
freshment.” He patted the horse’s satin 
neck with his hand, and then turned abrupt- 
ly to Mr. Blake. 

“I wonder if animals are half grateful 
enough for being spared all the trouble of 
talking and being talked to ? ” be said. 

“I don’t know. I’m sure, sir,” was the. 
matter-of-fact answer ; “ but I sometimes 
think they do understand one another.” 

“ Yes, so do I, but hope we are mistaken. 
I hope sincerely, for Mazeppa’s sake, that 
he will not be forced to exchange any greet- 
ings or answer any inquiries, before he be- 
takes himself to his fodder and dreams to- 
night.” 

Mr. Blake gave Brown Jerry’s bit a jerk, 
which threw his astonished head at least 
half a yard into the air, 

“ If you are very tired, sir, I have no 
doubt Mr. Seyton will excuse you from any 
greetings or inquiries,” he said, emphatically. 

The dark eyes looked at him with some- 
thing of a mocking gleam, and there was a 
slightly-mocking cadence in the tone, that 
answered pleasantly: 

“ I would not do Mr. Seyton’s courtesy 
so much injustice as to doubt it, but I do 
not know that I have made any plea of fa- 
tigue.” 

Despite the cadence mentioned, the 
tone made Mr. Blake feel rather ashamed 
of himself, and his quickness to take offence. 
So he answered, apologetically : 

“I beg your pardon, then, sir; but I 
only took that for granted. Anybody 
would, I think, have done the same.” 

“ There you are mistaken, mon ami,'' 
said his companion, good-huinoredly, but 
with the same mocking light in his eye that 
to Mr. Blake recalled his father so forcibly. 
“A wise man never takes any thing for 
granted. When I spoke of Mazeppa just 
now, I was not thinking of myself in the 
least. I am too much of a traveller to feel 
worsted by thirty miles in the saddle.” 

“Thirty miles since daylight, sir? ” 


AJS UNEXPECTED MEETING. 


21 


“ iTo — I am not a barbarian. Thirty 
miles since nine o’clock.” 

Mr. Blake looked at the sun, it was at 
.east two hours high, and then at Mazeppu’s 
flanks. 

“ In that case, sir, your horse, is even a 
better traveller than yourself, for thirty 
miles over our roads are equivalent to sixty 
elsewhere.” 

Mr. Conway smiled. “ If Mazeppa had 
the power of speech we were speaking of, 
he would tell you that he feels equal to 
thirty miles farther to-night. And I tell 
you that his speed and endurance are not to 
be matched out of Arabia.” 

“ He is finely blooded, I perceive.” 

“ He is a cross of the best blood in Eng- 
land. Sired by the famous . However, 

I spare you his pedigree, and an enumera- 
tion of the many cups his ancestors have 
won. You are probably not interested in 
the turf? ” 

“Not in the least,” replied Mr. Blake, 
dryly. 

Then there fell another pause. It was 
a lovely afternoon, even for May. The for- 
ests were beautiful with magnolia, honey- 
suckle, and jasmine, that wei'b scenting 
the air with their fragrance, and the bright- 
green foliage was in full luxuriance, but 
neither of the two men took any notice of 
these things. Mr. Blake was too well ac- 
customed to them, and Mr. Conway seemed 
as thoroughly indiflPerent as if he had been 
riding over the sterile sands of Sahara. So 
for a time there was a decided dearth of 
conversational topics. This time it was Mr. 
Blake who first broke the silence. 

“I suppose you have heard nothing of 
Mr. Cyril Harding on the road, sir? ” he asked. 
“ Mr. Seyton is expecting him every day.” 

If he meant to convey a piece of infor- 
mation, he must have been disappointed, for 
Mr. Conway did not look in the least sur- 
prised. He had evidently heard that his 
cousin was expected at Seyton House, and 
quite as evidently treated the fact with an 
indifference profound as that with which he 
regarded the magnolias and honeysuckles. 

“I have heard nothing of him,” he an- 
swered, carelessly ; “ but it is scarcely like- 
ly that I should have done so. There is a 


mail line running to Ayre, is there not? On 
what day does the coach come in ? ” 

“It is tri-weekly, and comes in on Tues- 
days, Thursdays, and Saturdays.” 

“To-day is Thursday, is it not? There 
is every probability, then, that my uncle 
will be gratified by the arrival of Mr. Cyril 
Harding.” 

Air. Blake started slightly, and looked a 
little curiously at his companion. 

“Yoii do know something of his move- 
ments, then ? ” 

“ Not in the least,” was the cool re- 
ply. “ But I know something of him ; and 
I am sure that he will not, of his own good 
will, allow me to precede him by even so 
much as an hour in my arrival at Seyton 
House.” 

“As you were both coming to the same 
place, at the same time, and from the same 
direction, I wonder, you did not come to- 
gether,” said Mr. Blake, bluntly. 

Air. Conway laughed — not a pleasant 
laugh — and shrugged his shoulders even 
more sarcastically than before. 

“ Aly cousin Cyril has never forgotten 
one or two episodes of our boyhood,” he 
replied. “ Indeed, his memory is so good^ 
and his opinion of my desperado proclivities 
so strong, that I doubt if he would bear me 
company on a lonely road, to be made mas- 
ter of Seyton House at the end of it. Put- 
ting my society out of the question, how- 
ever, I think he would, under any circum- 
stances, prefer a seat in a coach to a seat in 
the saddle. It is at once more comfortable 
and more safe, for we can scarcely consider it 
discreditable to such an eminent Christian 
that he is not above the weakness of fear.” 

Again the light, mocking tone jarred on 
Mr. Blake’s ear, more than it is possible for 
words to express — jarred, in recalling a 
voice that had never owned aught save a 
gibe for any thing in heaven or on earth, 
and for the first time in all his life he had 
laid lance in rest for the cause of fear. 

“He is a very foolish man, sir, who rum 
risks with bis life for mere boasting ana 
bravado. I am glad to hear that Air. Hard- 
ing is wise enough to avoid this, and yet 
brave enough to face ridicule for con- 
I science’ sake.” 


22 


MABEL LEE. 


Mr. Conway looked at him steadily, 
with a world of covert amusement in his 
dark eyes. 

“ My good friend,” he said, “will you 
he kind enough to explain what you mean 
by ‘ facing ridicule for conscience’ sake? ’ ” 

But there was no flinching in the man 
whom he regarded, the man who answered 
witli a certain sturdy dignity of his own. 

“ I mean, sir, that his Christianity does 
him far more credit than your sneer at it 
does you.” 

The honest fellow never got over 
a certain half liking for Philip Conway 
after that hour, after he saw how cordial a 
smile came over his face, and how cordial 
a tone into his voice, notwithstanding this 
rebuke. 

“I see,” he said, “that my cousin Cyril 
has already gained a friend whom I envy 
him, but whose partisanship I scarcely think 
he deserves. You will have to judge of 
that, however. Only one thing allow me to 
say in self-defence, my sneer was not in- 
tended for Christianity proper — the Christi- 
anity which no man honors more than I do 
— hut for Harding Christianity. When you 
know my cousin, you will understand the 
distinction.” 

Mr. Blake was on the point of under- 
standing it before that time, or at least of 
asking one or two questions relative to it, 
when a very un'expected interruption oc- 
curred. A sharp turn in the road brought 
them face to face with a horseman, who 
was an entire stranger to himself, but who 
started visibly on seeing his companion, and 
at once rode forward, exclaiming eagerly : 

“Conway! Phil! My dear fellow, is 
it possible ? ” 

“What, Ainslie!” said the other, in a 
tone of overwhelming surprise. 

And the next moment they were shaking 
hands warmly. 

“I thought you were in Cairo, with the 
desert on one hand and the plague on the 
other,” said one. 

“I thought you were in Paris, enjoying 
Les Trois Freres, and the charms of 'bac- 
zarat^^'‘ said the other. 

Conway laughed gayly. 

“It is like a scene in a play my dear 


fellow. We thought each other at the an* 
tipodes, and we suddenly encounter each 
other on a lonely road of the backwoods. 
Are you bound for Charleston ? ” 

“For nowhere else. Just as I was leav- 
ing for the. East — leaving Marseilles, that is 
— a letter reached me which left me no 
alternative but that of return. One of these 
troublesome people, who make it a principle 
to do every thing at the most inconvenient 
time imaginable, had suddenly died, and left 
me without any reliable business agent. It 
was come back, or be robbed to an unlimited 
extent. I came back.” 

“ That’s your sober English caution, 
Ainslie.” 

“ It’s not your headlong Irish impatience, 
I know. Come, turn hack with me. Let 
us spend the night in Ayre, and go on to- 
gether to-morrow. I take it for granted 
you are drifting about as much at large as 
ever.” 

“ISTo, by Jove! I not only have a 
special object in view just now, but Pm 
nailed down to an appointment. You have 
heard me speak of my uncle, Mr. Seyton ; 
well, I must be at his house to-night.” 

A glancb of quick intelligence passed 
between them — a glance which Mr. Blake 
did not fail to note, and score down to 
Philip Conway’s discredit; and then Mr. 
Ainslie said : 

“ Your uncle ! Pray accept my con- 
gratulations. Then this gentleman is not — ” 
and he turned to Mr. Blake. 

“He is my uncle’s business agent,’’ said 
Conway quickly, and somewhat warningly. 
“ Mr. Blake, let me introduce my friend Mr. 
Ainslie.” 

Mr. Blake touched his hat, not very 
graciously; and while Mr. Ainslie said a 
few commonplace words of greeting, he 
occupied himself in observing the personal 
appearance of this new candidate for favor 
or distrust. 

This was all that he saw : A figure strik- 
ingly like Philip Conway’s both in huild and 
carriage, save that what was graceful slender- 
ness in one, took the appearance of spareness 
in the other; and a sunburnt face that was 
only redeemed from positive ugliness by a pair 
of singularly brilliant hazel eyes, with some- 


HEBE IN A RIBBON-SHOP. 


23 


thing so exquisite and remarkable in them, 
that nobody could possibly have denied 
their beauty, and few people resisted their 
fascination. This one point was all the 
claim Mr. Ainslie could advance toward 
good looks ; but a certain ease and grace of* 
manner seconded it so well, that, even on 
first sight, he was an unusually attractive 
person — even on first sight people began to 
think him charming — and rarely changed 
their minds on closer acquaintance. For, 
just as there was something in Philip Con- 
way’s dark, handsome face which inspired 
distrust, and made worldly-wise men and 
women look askance at him, so in this face, 
which barely escaped ugliness, there was 
something that caused the most worldly 
wise to give confidence and bestow trust 
almost involuntarily. 

Even Mr. Blake felt the subtile influence 
which so many had felt before him — even 
he, looking at this man, could not but 
believe in him, and even he began to think 
better of Philip Conway for possessing such 
a friend. This feeling rather increased than 
subsided with every succeeding minute, and 
when he heard Mr. Ainslie say that he 
might possibly spend some days in Ay re, as 
his horse needed recruiting, and his mind 
needed companionship, he was conscious 
of something which was, curiously enough, 
almost a sense of relief. 

“ Then I will see you early in the morn- 
ing,” Philip Conway said, and with this 
understanding they parted. Mr. Ainslie pro- 
ceeded forward to the town, and, as the two 
others rode along in the opposite direction, 
Mr. Con way told his companion something of 
the man from whom they had just parted. 

He was immensely wealthy, he said, the 
sole inheritor of two equally colossal for- 
tunes, one of which had been left by his 
father, and the other by a maternal uncle ; 
but, instead of making this wealth the key 
to social influence or political power, or 
philanthropy or pleasure, or any other of 
the common toys of men, he had done little 
more than spend his time in wild, fantastic 
wanderings, and In dabbling after the man- 
ner of a dilettante in art and science. 

“He has been farther into Africa than 
ever a white man penetrated before,” said 


Mr. Conway, warming over the mention of 
his friend’s achievements. “ He has ex- 
plored, and made miraculous escapes in the 
interior of, India; he has ridden on horse- 
back from the Bosporus to the Arctic Ocean ; 
he has ascended the Nile, and crossed tho 
Libyan Desert ; he has lived in the midst of 
the plague in Smyrna and Damascus ; and he 
is as well known in the Arab tents as in tho 
cafes of the Palais Royal; he has sounded 
more seas, and climbed more mountains, 
than any other man of his generation ; he is 
equally at home with the pearl-divers ot 
Ceylon and the fishermen of the Hebrides, 
he has won an honorable name among men 
of letters and science ; he is welcomed like 
a brother in the studios of Rome and Paris ; 
and he has painted pictures that prove he 
might, if he chose, be among the first of liv- 
ing artists. In short, he has done every 
thing but — ” 

“ But what ? ” asked Mr. Blake, whose 
interest was on the increase. 

“But win social position in his native 
city.” 

“ What ! that man not a gentleman ? ” 

“Yes, the best of gentlemen. But his 
father left some blot on the name — I don't 
know exactly what, for such matters seem 
to me of little importance — only it was dark 
enough to close the doors of good society for- 
ever against his son. I don’t think Ainslie 
minds it much ; but, if he did, it would be all 
the same. He may climb the Himalayas, and 
penetrate the wilds of Central Africa, but 
he can never hope to enter a Charleston 
drawing-room.” 

Before Mr. Blake could reply, the sound 
of flowing water fell upon their ears, and 
in another moment they were standing on 
the bank of the Ayre, with the ferry-boat 
pulling rapidly toward them, and Seyton 
House showing clear and dark against the 
western sky. 


CHAPTER V. 

HEBE IN A EIBBON-SHOP. 

There has seldom been a more tired 
face, serene and sweet though it was, than 
that with which Constance Lee was walking 


24 


MABEL LEE. 


home on the Monday after Mr. Conway’s 
arrival at Seyton House. 

An exceedingly tired face — for the re- 
verses of the Lee family liad made this girl 
a music-teacher, and she had been giving an 
uuusual number of lessons that morning to 
unusually stupid pupils — and, judged by the 
rules of beauty, not a pretty face, yet a face 
that had its own charm, nevertheless — a 
face wdth clear, helpful intelligence in it, 
with woman’s ordinary power of endurance, 
and more than woman’s ordinary power of 
thought ; with earnest, steadfast gray eyes, 
with an exquisite mouth, and with a very 
arch humor in it sometimes, though just 
now it looked so pale and patient — scarcely 
a face to admire ; but scarcely, either, a 
face to pity, for we rarely pity those who 
seem capable of bearing their own burden. 
Our compassion all goes to the weak shoul- 
ders that bend, and to the moaning lips so 
ever ready to complain; yet, perhaps, we 
might bestow it better if we waited for one 
of those soldiers of life who pass by with 
head erect and steady step, even, sometimes, 
W’ith smiling lip, yet the- cruel weight — if 
we dare call any thing of God’s ordination 
cruel! — which is laid on them would thrice 
double that other, on which we gaze with 
swimming eyes. Ah ! surely, if sometimes 
we entertain angels unawares, there are 
other times when we live face to face with 
heroes and know them not — heroes more 
brave than those that died at Marathon! 
more enduring than those who starved with- 
in the walls of Genoa! — for, as there are 
deaths deeper than the mere physical pang, 
so there are starvations worse than any of 
the body — heroes for whom earth has nev- 
er a song nor a wreath, who die soundless 
as they have lived, but whom it may be we 
shall find hereafter far above those whom 
life has covered with praise, and crowned 
with laurels. 

So, on this bright Monday morning, Con- 
stance Lee was walking along very quietly, 
the pretty village street all to herself, and 
her roll of music in her hand, looking rather 
absently before her, and wondering whether 
Nancy had remembered to bny the barrel 
of flour which was needed, or whether she 
Dught to go and see about it herself, when 


there came a quick tread along the side- 
walk behind her, a man’s figure at her side, 
and a voice, rather harsh than otherwise, 
saying, abruptly : 

“ How badly you look, Constance I 
What is the matter? ” 

She started, and then turned, with a 
smile. 

“ Nothing much, Francis, thank you. 
Some of the children were unusually 
troublesome this morning, that is all.” 

“ You are sure that is all ? Nothing the 
matter at home ? ” 

“No, nothing whatever. I left mamma 
and Mabel both in high spirits. You know 
there is to be a dinner-party at Seyton 
House to-day, and they are enjoying it in 
anticipation.” 

“Yes, I know. I have an invitation, 
and I was going to ask you about it. Who 
is to be there ? ” 

“ Everybody, I believe,” she answered, 
smiling. “Everybody, that is, whom Mr. 
Seyton considers de notre classe. It is 
meant to introduce his nephew in due form 
to society, you know.” 

Her companion nodded, and then com- 
pressed his lips in a way peculiar to him- 
self, as he walked along by her side ; in a 
way, too, that made quite a young face seem 
quite an old one. It was a face too lined 
andosunken for symmetry at any time, but, 
taken thus, it was peculiarly far from hand- 
some. Keen and worn, almost haggard in- 
deed, from the plainly-marked effects of in- 
tellectual toil, it might yet have been refined 
by this very toil into a beauty which of 
themselves the rugged features lacked, if an 
habitually harsh and unpleasant expression 
had not marred the effect, and if the caustic 
mouth had not more than counteracted the 
broad and somewhat benign brow. After 
seeing his face, you were not surprised at 
his voice; after hearing his voice, you were 
not surprised at his face. Seldom has Na- 
ture fitted two things into more exact ac- 
cordance — for, there was not a tone of melo- 
dy in the voice, and there was not an ele- 
ment of softness in the face. Taking both 
together, you felt that impres^ons graved 
on granite were less ineffaceable than this 
man’s opinions and this man’s resolves. 


HEBE IN A RIBBON-SHOP. 


25 


“ How are you all going out to Seyton 
House ? ” he asked, suddenly. “ I suppose 
the carriage will he sent for my aunt, but 
cannot I drive yourself or Mabel ? ” 

“ Mr. Seyton promised to send the boat 
for us, and we are going by the river,” 
Constance answered. “ I think that would 
be pleasanter for you than driving over 
these dusty roads. Come with us. Do.” 

“ I should like it, but it depends upon 
who will come for you.” 

She looked up a little surprised. 

“Who will come for us? Why, who 
should come besides the boatmen? ” 

“Mr. Philip Conway, perhaps; consider- 
ing that he did nothing but stare at Mabel 
in church yesterday.” 

“,Mr. Philip Conway was not in church 
yesterday.” 

“ Mr. Cyril Harding, then.” 

“ Hor he,” said Constance, with a merry 
laugh. “ He is said to be the strictest of 
Protestants, and would be horritied at the 
mere suspicion of attending mass.” 

“ And is the other one a Protestant 
too?” asked Mr. Howell, with something 
like an expression of relief. 

“Ho, I believe not. But he had a head- 
ache or something of the sort, Mr. Seyton 
said, and that kept him at home. The gen- 
tleman you saw was a friend of his, who is 
staying at the House, and with whom every- 
body — even Mr. Blake — is in love.” 

“ He is very ugly.” 

“ Ugly ! How can you say so ? I think 
he has a charming face, and the most beau- 
tiful eyes I ever saw.” 

“ He certainly gave everybody in your 
seat sufficient opportunity for observing 
them. Pray was Mabel as much impressed 
as yourself ? ” 

“Mabel is the only person who has 
taken an unaccountable dislike to him. 
She said so yesterday, and this morning she 
reported that she dreamed of snakes all 
night, and that the snakes, every one, had 
his eyes.” 

Mr. Howell laughed. 

“How fancy and imagination run away 
with her ! ” he said — but he did not say it 
half as sharply as usual. 

“Excitement, too,” said Constance. — 


“ See ! yonder, she is at the gate, waiting 
for me now.” 

There she was, indeed ; a violet-eyed, 
golden-haired vision, leaning over the low 
gate toward which they were advancing, 
and looking like a Hebe of the spring, with 
a wilderness of tender foliage and tinted 
blossom on either side, and drooping ten- 
drils of the honeysuckle, which was trained 
in an arch over the gate, falling all around 
her. She opened the gate for them, as they 
came near, and gave her hand and a smile to 
Mr. Howell, while she looked reproachfully 
at her sister. 

“ O Constance ! what a time you have 
been, and mamma so impatient. I really 
thought I should have to send Haney for 
you. What made you leave her cap all in 
pieces, and the ribbon — nobody knows 
where ? ” 

Constance looked dismayed — as well she 
might. 

“ Mamma’s cap ! I forgot it completely. 
I had it done up, you know, and I was sure 
I put the trimming back on it. However, 
there is not much to do, only — ” 

“ Only what ? ” 

“ I must first go down the street for 
some ribbon, the other is too soiled to be 
put back; and I remember now that was 
why I waited.” 

She turned from the gate, but Mabel 
summarily laid hold of her. 

“Go down street, indeed! You look 
very much like it. Can’t I see in your 
poor, pale face how tired you are ? Besides, 
mamma will take hysterics in another five 
minutes, if you don’t go to her. Give me 
your hat. I will get the ribbon.” 

“ But, Mabel, you will tire yourself, and 
you know the dinner-party — ” 

“ Yes, I know all about the dinner-par- 
ty ; and 1 know, too, that you seem to think 
nobody has a right to be tired but yourself. 
Cousin Francis, is this a free and indepen- 
dent country, and am I a free and indepen 
dent citizen of it? If so, I summon you, in 
the name of liberty, to remove that hat and 
give it to me.” 

“ Many things quite as high-handed have 
been done in the name of liberty,” said Mr. 
Howell, as he lifted Constance’s hat from 


26 


MABEL LEE. 


her brown braids, and laid it on Mabel’s glit- 
tering locks. “You can quote Madame Eo- 
land, if you feel inclined, Constance.” 

“ She had better go and put mamma’s 
cap together,” said Mabel, while she tied 
the strings under her chin. “ Dear, what 
makes you trim your hats with such an 
ugly color ? I am sure I look like a fright 
in it, don’t I, Cousin Francis? ” 

“ Suppose 1 say yes, Mabel? ” 

“ Suppose you know your duty better, 
sir ? What are cousins for, if they don’t flat- 
ter one and keep one in good-humor? ” 

“I consider their duty in life to be just 
the reverse.” 

“I know you do,” she said, “and that 
is just the reason I don’t like you — some- 
times. You lecture too much.” 

“Dol?” 

“A great deni too much,” she answered, 
with a pretty little toss of the head. “I 
like you infinitely better when you are 
agreeable, and, as you seem to be in a toler- 
able good-humor now, I will let you go 
down-street with me. — Constance, what sort 
of ribbon do you want? ” 

“Two yards of lavender lutestring, inch 
width, if you will go, Mabel. But I am 
really afraid the sun will give you a head- 
ache.” 

“ Cousin Francis will tell you that it is 
time I should get used to headaches. He 
says I am spoiled to death, and that, if I had 
any strength of mind, I would unspoil myself. 
I mean, for once, to prove that I possess the 
necessary strength of mind.” 

Constance saw that further remonstrance 
was useless. She said to Mr. Nowell, 
“ Take care of her,” and then she went into 
the house to find the cap, and pacify her 
mother. 

Meanwhile, Mabel set olF down-street, 
wearing the most simple of morning-dresses, 
her curls all dishevelled, perfectly innocent 
of gloves, veil, or parasol, and altogether a 
figure which greatly horrified the two Miss- 
es Crane — shopping in green silks and black- 
lace shawls — when she met them on the 
main street. They both stared; for Ayre 
was very fashionable, and it was not con- 
sidered the style to appear on Main Street 
in any except “ dress ” costume. But Ma- 


bel smiled as brightly as if her ofibnce had 
been one of the most veniai nature, and 
then, with a pleasant good-morning, flitted 
past them into a lace-and-ribbon shop. 

The two ladies looked at each other. 

“Did you ever see the like of that?” 
said one. 

“ She has been so spoLed, I am hardly 
surprised,” answered the other. “ People 
really seem to think her something more 
than mortal, w^hile, for my part — I like her 
very much, of course, but L can see that she 
believes she can do exactly w^hat she 
jfieases.” . 

“And Francis Nowell, too!” said the 
first, a little resentfully. “ I wonder he 
would have come down-street with her, and 
she such a figure ! ” 

“Everybody knows that Francis Now- 
ell is in love,” returned the other, with a 
shrug; “and a man in love has about as 
much sense as this parasol. ‘ The king can 
do no wrong ’ in his eyes, you may be sure, 
Lavinia.” 

“Men are very great fools,” said Miss 
Lavinia, in an aggrieved tone, for, as it 
chanced, nobody had ever been tempted to 
folly on her account. “But still, Francis 
Nowell — he might know that a girl like 
Mabel — a girl who has been so much flat- 
tered and spoiled — would never marry a 
man like him.” 

“She might do worse. He is very tal- 
ented.” 

“ But he is poor,” said Miss Lavinia, in 
much the same tone that she might have 
said, but he is a gamester, or a felon, or any 
thing else utterly disreputable. “He is 
poor ; and you may be sure her family will 
never let Mabel marry anybody but a rich 
man. Indeed, Mrs. Phifer was telling me 
yesterday — ” 

“Hush ! ” said her sister, in a warning 
whisper. “There is Mrs. Phifer in that 
shop.” 

“ Well, what of that? She did not tell it 
to me as a secret. It was only that — but here 
she comes. — Dear Mrs. Phifer, how glad I 
am to see you 1 ” 

Dear Mrs. Phifer was a stout, elderly 
lady in black, with a very imposing pres- 
ence, a Koman nose, and an air half magis- 


HEBE IN A RIBBON-SHOP. 


27 


terial and half clerical, which went far to 
prove that, although a “minister’s wife,” 
she was very unlike the meek creature who 
generally fills that position, but considered 
herself second in importance and influence 
to nobody in the parish. She met the two 
green silk divinities in the middle of the 
pavement, just as she stepped out of a tai- 
lor’s shop, where she had been to order a 
pair of pantaloons — not for herself, but for 
her husband. 

“ Mind, Mr. Pierce, a little longer, and 
not nearly so tight as the last pair,” she was 
saying to the tailor, who had followed her 
to the door. “Now, don’t forget which 
piece of cassimere I chose. The other is 
very inferior, and — Ah, my dears, I am 
very glad to see you. How well you are 
both looking ! ” 

Of course, they both returned the com- 
pliment, as they walked on together ; and 
then Miss Lavinia went back to the subject 
which had been under discussion by her sis- 
ter and herself, a few minutes before. 

“We were just speaking of you, dear 
Mrs. Phifer,” she said, “ and I was just be- 
ginning to repeat to Ellen what you told 
me after church yesterday, about Mabel 
Lee and her godfather. Don’t you remem- 
ber?” 

“ Mabel Lee ! ” said Mrs. Phifer, with 
rather a puzzled look ; and then her face 
suddenly cleared. “ Oh, yes, about her god- 
father’s plan of marrying her to one of his 
nephews, was it not? That is the report, 
undoubtedly ; but we can hardly trust mere 
gossip, you know.” 

“ Of course not,” said Miss Lavinia, who 
was the originator of half the gossip of 
Ayre. “But I thought you quoted some 
authority for it.” 

“ Did I ? ” said Mrs. Phifer, looking puz- 
zled again, for, in the multiplicity of subjects 
which engrossed her attention, she was apt 
to become somewhat oblivious of unimpor- 
tant matters. “ Perhaps I did, my dear, but 
I don’t remember who it could have been. 
I heard that Mr. Seyton had sent for his 
two nephews, in order to choose an heir, 
and that he would choose whichever one 
agreed to marry Mabel. That was all. You 
saw one of them in church yesterday— the 


stranger who occupied a seat in the right- 
hand pew, next the chancel.” 

“Yes, I saw him,” said Miss Lavinia, in 
a tone which left no doubt of the fact. 
“How handsome he is ! ” 

“Very handsome, and a most excellent 
young Christian,” said Mrs. Phifer. “ He 
called on Mr. Phifer after the sermon, and 
I was never more edified than by his con- 
versation. He assured us that, instead of de- 
siring the inheritance of Seyton Hous'e, he 
very much hoped his uncle would not leave 
it to him. His cousin needs it much more, 
he said, and, for himself, he desires to enter 
the ministry. ‘My Master’s service,’ he 
added, ‘is honor enough for me.’ ” 

The young ladies gave a low murmur of 
admiration. 

“Yes, my dears, yes. But then, you see, 
it is to be hoped that he will obtain it, for 
this young Conway is of most dreadful char- 
acter. Mr. Harding could scarcely speak of 
him without a shudder, and, although ho 
said very little, it was evident what he 
thought. For myself, I confess that I shud- 
der ” — she suited the action to the word — 
“to think of the Seyton property passing 
into such hands.” 

“ But it has not passed into them yet,” 
said the elder Miss Crane, “and Mr. 
Seyton — ” 

“Mr. Seyton has not an idea beyond 
Mabel Lee,” interrupted Miss Lavinia. 
“ People always prophesied that, instead of 
renewing the entail, he would leave the 
property to her. I have no doubt he would 
have done so, but for this bright idea of 
marrying her to the heir. What a nice race 
there will be between Mr. Conway and Mr. 
Harding ! ” 

Said Mrs. Phifer, stiflSy : “I doubt if 
Mr. Harding will make any efibrt to secure 
the inheritance which ought to be his by 
right.” 

“ Oh, dear ! trust him for that ! ” said Miss 
Crane, in an incredulous tone. “No mattei 
if he is a Christian, Christians want monej 
as much as anybody else. And then, Mrs. 
Phifer, we all know that Mabel is so pretty 
that everybody falls in love with her. Mr. 
Harding may do that.” 

Mrs. Phifer smiled loftily, but before she 


28 


MABEL LEE. 


could reply, in terms of sufficient force, Miss 
Lavinia gave her arm a nipping pinch, and 
exclaimed, in an intense whisper: “There 
he is now 1 ” 

“ There is who ? ” asked her sister, 
eagerly, while Mrs. Phifer was too indig- 
nant with her arm to take interest in any 
other matter. “There who is, Lavinia? ” 

“ The gentleman who was in church yes- 
terday. Don’t you recognize his figure? ” 

They all turned and looked quickly. A 
gentleman was leisurely sauntering down 
the street in front of them, and — yes — they 
all recognized the graceful figure and fault- 
less coat which they had admired the day 
before. True, the coat had changed from 
black to fawn color, and there was an air 
about the figure of the ye ne sais quoi in 
style and elegance, which had been totally 
lacking before ; but they could, one and all, 
swear to it as the very same they had seen 
occupying the right-hand pew next the 
chancel — when lo ! the stranger turned his 
head, so that they caught a glimpse of his 
profile, and they saw at once that they had 
made a mistake. 

“It is not he, after all,” said Miss La- 
vinia, a little crestfallen. “ But, oh, is he 
not handsome ? ” 

“ Goodness ! wffio can he be ? ” exclaimed 
her sister. 

Wlioever he was, he turned abruptly 
into the very shop where Mabel Lee was 
buying two yards of lavender ribbon. 

This business had proved to be one of 
considerable duration, for Mr. Nowell elected 
himself referee in the matter, and so unhesi- 
tatingly condemned all the delicate tints 
which were poured out on the counter, that 
Mabel found herself at last decidedly waver- 
ing in her own judgment. 

“ What will you have ? ” she cried, ap- 
pealingly, after every shade of purple, lilac, 
and lavender, had been alternately shown 
and successively vetoed. “If none of these 
suit, what do you advise ? ” 

“Bring some gray and stone color,” said 
Mr. Nowell to the clerk. — “ That is what I 
advise, Mabel,” he said, when the desired 
articles made their appearance. “Either 
of these will suit my aunt. But she is much 
too old to wear these frippery things.” 


“Too old! Mamma! I don’t know 
what you mean, sir. I only wish you were 
half as young as she is. She would look 
dreadfully in those horrid things.” 

“ How often must I tell you, Mabel, that 
looks are of no importance ? ” 

“Then if looks are of no importance, 
what must one consult when one buys rib- 
bons? ” 

“Propriety,” answered Mr. Nowell, 
briefly — “propriety which says, at present, 
this.” 

And he held the stoniest of the grays 
toward her. 

But Mabel drew back almost petulantly. 

“ Propriety may say so, if it chooses, and 
you besides. Cousin Francis ; but, for all 
that, I am not going to shock mamma by 
taking such a thing home. Delicate colors 
are becoming to her. She is like me.” 

“Like you, is she? Then I should not 
be surprised to go back and find her arrayed 
in any enormity — even a red gown.” 

“ Did you ever see me in a red gown ? ” 

“I certainly never saw you in any thing 
like the sedate and proper colors Constance 
wears.” 

“ No, I hope not, considering that I 
don’t want to make a fright of myself. But 
come, I must choose mamma’s ribbon. 
Which shall it be — this lilac, or this 
mauve ? ” 

“ They are equally unfit for the pur- 
pose.” 

“ And equally pretty. Tell me which 
is the most becoming ; that will decide the 
matter. See, now.” 

She held a knot of the ribbon to each 
side of her sunny hair, and looked up at 
him with a smile that might have melted 
a man of bronze. Francis Nowell was not 
quite a man of bronze — let him do his ut- 
most to harden himself ; and he looked at 
her silently, looked so earnestly, so almost 
passionately, that, after a moment, the 
lashes sunk over the sweet violet eyes, and 
a tinge of additional color stole into the 
lovely face. 

It was at this moment that the stranger’s 
glance fell on her, and he entered the shop 
at once — entered it almost like one under a 
spell. 


IN THE GARDEN. 


20 


Mabel was fronting the door — she had 
turned round from the counter to her cousin 
• — and so, had only to raise her eyes, when 
the light was darkened by the entrance of 
the new-comer. She did not raise them ; 
and all that Francis Nowell saw was a sud- 
den, vivid blush, which spread like lightning 
over the fair skin, until it reached even the 
roots of the golden hair. 

lie turned sharply, and saw, for the first 
time, a face which he was destined to see 
often, to hate bitterly, to suspect cruelly, to 
like never. It may be that he was a jealous 
lover, or it may be only that he was a keen 
lawyer ; but his first, instantaneous impres- 
sion of that face was one of distrust — an 
impression which may have been instinct, 
or only prejudice, but which after-events 
seemed to justify, and which he never con- 
quered or forgot. So, after one haughty 
stare — a stare that was returned with in- 
terest — he brought his attention back to 
Mabel, and said, coldly : 

“ Buy either of the things, Mabel, or 
both, if you choose, and let us go. I am 
sure Constance must wonder at your long 
absence.” 

“ Yes,” answered Mabel, absently. — 
“ Two yards, if you please,” she said to 
the clerk. And oh ! how terribly conscious 
she was of her muslin dress, her falling hair, 
and her gloveless hands. 

“ Two yards of which piece, ma’am ? ” 

“ Either — yes, that will do.” 

So two yards were measured and cut ofiT 
from the brightest shade of purple among 
them all. At last, too, it was paid for, and 
the change made, a matter which Mr. Now- 
ell thought would never be accomplished, 
and, when they were once fairly out of the 
shop, he could no longer restrain his vexa- 
tion. 

“You ought not to come out without 
a veil, Mabel. I have told you so often. 
AY omen are never secure from impertinent 
staring. I should have liked amazingly to 
knock that fellow down. I wonder who he 
is ? That man who came into the shop just 
now, and stared at you- so, I mean.” 

Mabel did not answer for a moment. 
She was twisting the little parcel of ribbon 
nervously round her fingers ; but, after a 


while, she looked up at her cousin. “ It 
was Mr. Philip Conway,” she said, quietly, 
“I knew him at once.” 


CHAPTER YI. 

IN THE G AEDEN. 

Two gentlemen were loitering on the 
terrace of Seyton House — one of ' them 
smoking, and the other leaning idly over 
the balustrade — when the boat containing 
the Lee party came in sight. 

“ Throw away your cigar, Phil,” said he 
of the balustrade, with a laugh. “ Your gal- 
lantry will be put to the touch in a moment 
— for yonder comes your Hebe of the rib- 
bon-shop.” 

“ Then I hope her Cerberus is not in at- 
tendance still,” said Mr. Conway, carelessly. 
“ However, we shall not be disturbed. The 
landing is down yonder, and they cross the 
lawn to the front of the house. You have 
deucedly good eyes, Ainslie. How can you 
possibly tell who is in that craft, at this dis- 
tance ? ” 

“ It was not my eyes, but my ears, that 
were good in this case,” answered Mr. 
Ainslie. “I heard whom the boat was to be 
sent for, and therefore did not find it hard 
to conjecture who was in it. Yonder is a 
blue parasol. Do divinities use blue parasols, 
Phil ? ” 

“ They only wear limp dresses, and ex- 
traordinary hats, as far as my knowledge 
extends,” answered Mr. Conway. “But 
you ought to know. It is said you devoted 
your attention to the question, in the most 
candid maimer, yesterday.” 

“Who says so? ” 

“All Ayre, I believe. I heard several 
people mention the fact this morning, so I 
thought you must have done some staring 
out of the ordinary way.” 

Mr. Ainslie shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Staring, as it is vulgularly called, is a 
license permitted to an artist — and I am an 
artist for the nonce. By-the-by, did you 
know your uncle has engaged me profes- 
sionally ? ” 

.“ AVhat do you mean? ” 


30 


MABEL LEE. 


“ Just what I say. He was so much de- 
lighted with that miniature I painted of 
you, and regretted so deeply to find that it 
was not the work of a professional artist, 
that I could not help off*ering my services. 
And what do you suppose he wanted me to 
do? ” 

“ Paint his own likeness.” 

“ No; that of some one else.” 

Mr. Conway turned round and looked at 
his companion with some appearance of in- 
terest — the first he had evinced. 

“Not the cub’s, surely.” 

“ Hardly,” said his friend, with a laugh. 
“No; the divinity herself. Don’t you envy 
me?” I 

“ Impossible to say, until I know wheth- 
er or not she has any brains under those 
golden locks of hers.” 

“ Brains are a very secondary considera- 
tion, caro mio. A woman’s face is all that 
is worth attention — for, after all, there is 
scarcely an appreciable difierence between 
the most foolish and the most wise among 
them.” 

“ I know you think so,” said Mr. Con- 
way, indifferently. “But there have been 
women of sense — even from our stand-point, 
Ralph.” 

“May all good angels deliver me from 
them, then!” cried the other, fervently. 

“ From ugly women and clever women may 
I be ever alike preserved 1 — There, the boat 
has touched the landing, and who is that 
going down to meet it? ” 

“My uncle, I think.” 

“ But there is some one with him.” 

“The cub, of course. He follows him 
about like a spaniel.”' 

“ And bores him to death.” 

“ Tant pis pour luiy 

^ Meanwhile, the boating-party were busi- 
ly disembarking, and had almost accom- 
plished that matter before Mr. Seyton and 
his nephew reached them. First came Mrs. 
Lee, the most delicate and helpless of hu- 
man beings, with Constance’s graceful feat- 
ures, and Constance’s soft, brown hair, but 
with a complexion that looked as if all 
color had long since been washed out of it, 
and wistful, lackadaisical eyes — a being 
evidently on the qui vive for accidents, and | 


ready to scream at every unoffending grass- 
hopper or caterpillar, but looking very re- 
fined and pretty in her pearl-colored silk 
and purple ribbons, nevertheless ; a being 
who was plainly in a continual state of in 
jured feeling and nervous apprehension — 
but extremely ladylike, and rather attrac- 
tive, despite these foibles. 

Then came Constance, all in a fioating 
cloud of light gray larege — at which Mr. 
Nowell had looked very approvingly when 
she made her appearance down-stairs as 
they were about to set out. He entertained 
a very great regard for her — in a utilitarian 
I)oint of view — and nothing pleased him 
more than the quiet style of dress she al- 
wa 3 "s adopted. He was continually holding 
up to Mabel her perfections of character 
and costume; but he would quite as soon 
have thought of falling in love with his 
aunt as with either the one or the other of 
these perfections. Yet Constance was 
looking very pretty just then — although the 
pallor had not left her face, or the tired 
look faded out of her eyes — for her misty 
draperies became her wonderfully ; and so 
did the soft white lace she wore at her 
neck, and the knot of bright-blue ribbon in 
her hair. 

Last uprose Mabel — to find awaiting her 
Mr. Seyton’s eager, outstretched hand, and 
Mr. Seyton’s loving, admiring eyes. “ My 
rose-bud has surpassed herself,” he said, in 
his delight ; and then he led her forward, 
with quite a little air of triumph. — “ Cyril,” 
he said, addressing a young man who was 
talking to Mrs. Lee, “let me present you to 
my goddaughter.” 

The gentleman addressed turned quickly 
and bowed deeply; then, as he raised his 
face, he gave one long look at the exquisite 
apparition before him. 

“ I almost thought you were about to 
introduce the queen of the fairies, sir,” he 
said. 

And the compliment was neither so far- 
fetched nor so high-flown as might at first 
be imagined — for Titania’s self never trod 
earth in lovelier guise than did Mabel Lee 
that day. Her dress was only white mus- 
lin, but of exquisitely fine fabric, and its 
making had been a labor of love to Con* 


IN THE GARDEN. 


31 


stance’s nimble fingers. Mr. Nowell groaned 
vainly over the endless ruffles, the dainty 
flounces, and airy puffs ; he lectured vainly 
over the broad rose-colored sash and rib- 
bons ; for neither groans nor lectures short- 
ened Constance’s labor, or curbed Mabel’s 
delight, one whit. He alone had refused 
his tribute of admiration when she came 
down fully dressed that day — refused it, 
though even Father Lawrence, who chanced 
to step in at the moment, had declared that 
she might be painted for St. Agnes or St. 
Cecilia. “ I am sure that neither St. Agnes 
nor St. Cecilia ever wore any thing of that 
foolish and improper description,” said Mr. 
Nowell, severely — and now he had to stand 
by and hear this impertinent coxcomb make 
a still more odious comparison. “The 
queen of the fairies, indeed ! They will 
spoil her beyond all hope of cure,” he 
thought to himself, savagely, wishing the 
while in his heart of hearts that he could 
take her away from them all, and shut her 
up where never man’s eyes save his own 
should fall upon her — nor a man’s voice 
speak admiration. Perhaps in that case he 
might have seen no harm even in the white 
muslin flounces and rose-colored ribbons. 

As for Mr. Cyril Harding, he was walk- 
ing beside Mrs. Lee, and answering her well- 
bred commonplaces, but he did little else 
save stare at Mabel, all the way to the 
house — Mabel, who was clinging to her god- 
father’s arm, and talking to him gayly, quite 
oblivious of the admiring eyes bent upon 
her, except that they had struck her as very 
black and very disagreeable in expression 
when she first met them. 

Yet Mrs. Phifer and the Misses Crane 
had thought Mr. Harding an exceedingly 
handsome man-^and so he was, barring the 
unmistakable stamp of the prig, and barring 
also a certain solemnity of aspect and stiff- 
ness of demeanor, which did not sit well on 
so young a man, and gave him rather the 
aspect of a saturnine divine — an aspect 
which (like many other things too tedious 
to mention) requires a cultivated evangeli- 
cal taste to appreciate it; and which Mabel, 
being neither cultivated nor evangelical, did 
not at all fancy. 

“He looks like a preacher,” she whis- 


pered to her godfather, with a little confi- 
dential pressure of the arm. “ I don’t like 
him in the least.” 

“I wonder if you will like the other any 
better, Mab ? ” 

“ That remains to be seen,” she an- 
swered. And the next moment they were 
under the shadow of the portico. 

Mrs. Nesbitt, the housekeeper, met them 
in the hall with many courtesies, and at 
once led the ladies away to the chamber 
prepared for their reception. Mrs. Lee was 
to do the honors of the house on this occa- 
sion — the first of the kind on many a long 
day — so her interest in all the details of 
arrangement was, for the time, quite as live- 
ly as if she had been 'bona fide mistress of 
Seyton House. In this mood, Mrs. Nesbitt 
was only too ready to humor her — there 
being this thing, that thing, and the other 
thing, concerning all of which she had 
wished to ask Mrs. Lee’s advice. Would it 
trouble Mrs. Lee too much just to step down 
to the dining-room and pantry ? She could 
decide so much better about the epergiies 
after she had seen them — not to speak of the 
disputed point between herself and the but- 
ler as to the serving of fruit on silver or 
glass. Mrs. Lee replied that it would not 
in the least trouble her too much ; and, bare- 
ly allowing Constance to fasten her collar, 
she rustled away, with the voluble house- 
keeper in close attendance. So, left alone, 
the two sisters looked at each other and 
smiled. 

“ Mamma will be happy for the next 
hour,” said Constance. “ Now, what shall 
we do? ” 

“ Go down to godpapa,” suggested Mabel. 

“Well, no; because that means going 
down to the other gentlemen also ; and we 
shall have quite enough of them at dinner. 
Let us go to the garden. I have not seen it 
this spring.” 

“Have you not? Then you have not 
seen any of Mr. Farris’s new improvements. 
Yes, that is where we will go. Put on your 
hat.” 

“I have it here. Shall we go down the 
back-stairs? ” 

“Of course; if we were seen, we should 
be waylaid. Hush, now I ” 


MABEL LEE. 


Thej ran lightly down the narrow stairs, 
past the pantry, where Mrs. Lee’s voice was 
heard emphatic in command and advice, 
down a passage, out of a side door, and 
straight across a green slope of sunny sward, 
into the beautiful and far-famed gardens of 
Seyton House. 

They had never looked more beautiful, 
or better deserved their fame, than on this 
lovely May afternoon ; and the sisters wan- 
dered up and down the long alleys, admired 
all the skilful gardener’s new improvements, 
and discussed the rival merits of Hoisette 
and Bengal roses, quite oblivious of the fact 
that many carriages had already deposited 
their occupants at the door of the house. 
Mabel, in especial, seemed to have entirely 
forgotten time and circumstances; and was 
only intent upon a certain South American 
shrub that she wished to show Constance, 
but could not find. She wandered off in 
search of it, leaving her sister quite alone. 
The latter sat down patiently to wait her 
return; but it was not long before she 
heard her name called, and saw two gentle- 
men advancing down the path toward her. 
One, she knew, was Mr. Ainslie — the other 
she could only conjecture to be Mr. Conway. 
They apologized for their appearance, ex- 
plaining that the company having all ar- 
rived, while her sister and herself were not 
to be found in the house, Mr. Seyton had 
grown uneasy, and Mrs. Lee nervous, and 
they themselves had been sent in quest of 
the truants. Ho; Miss Lee must not think 
it was a trouble — or that they did not very 
willingly undertake such a pleasant service. 
They were fortunate to find her so soon ; 
and — if they might inquire — where was her 
sister ? 

Constance gave all the information she 
possessed on that subject, and Mr. Conway 
at once volunteered to seek the missing de- 
moiselle. 

“ I know the locality of the Brazilian 
plant very well,” he said. — “ Ealph, you 
had better take Miss Lee to the house. I 
will follow with Miss Mabel as soon as I 
find her.” 

So saying, he lifted his hat, and strode 
away down the same path that Mabel had 
taken ten minutes before. 


Suddenly he paused, for there, in an open 
space, was the brilliant tropical shrub, cov- 
ered with gorgeous blossoms, and scenting 
the air with its rich fragrance, while close 
beside it, bending over the cup of a large 
bloom, was a slender, white-clad form, that 
might have been a sylph or a saint, in that 
beautiful bright framework of flowers. He 
stood for a moment of strange self-forgetful- 
ness, gazing with admiration at this lovely 
vision ; and it was only her evident and in- 
creasing embarrassment which recalled his 
recollection. 

^‘Pardon me,” he said, courteously, as he 
advanced and took off his hat; “I amsorry 
to intrude — sorry to disturb you — but I 
have been sent — ” 

“For me?” said Mabel, with a start. 
“ Oh, dear ! am I so late as that? ” 

“You are very late,” replied Mr, Con- 
way, smiling at her consternation. “Mrs. 
Lee and my uncle are becoming anxious, 
and the latter did me the honor to send me 
to hasten your return.” 

“ I am very sorry to have given you so 
much trouble. I will go and find my sister, 
who is in the garden also.” 

“ Miss Lee has already returned to the 
house with Mr. Ainslie.” 

“Indeed! ” 

She started quickly forward, but her 
muslin flounces caught in the prickly shrub, 
which seemed loath to let her go, and in an- 
other moment there might have been a de- 
struction of all Constance’s work, if Mr. Con- 
way had not come to the rescue. 

He bent over her to loosen the filmy 
fabric ; bent so close that he marked every 
throb of the azure veins on the hand that 
strove to help and only hindered him ; so 
close that something seemed to unnerve 
him completely, and the strong, subtile per- 
fume of the shrub rushed over him with an 
almost overpowering effect. In all the after- 
years of his life, he could never endure that 
fragrance, or see without a shudder the gor- 
geous blossoms that held Mabel Lee’s dress 
that day, as if they held her from the fate 
she went to meet. 

“That will do, thank you. I am entirely 
disengaged now. But I am afraid you have 
torn your hands dreadfully,” said the sweet, 


IN THE GARDEN. 


33 


girlisR voice over bis bead. “They are 
bleeding ! ” 

He looked at them absently. They were 
bleeding, certainly, but not very much. 
Taking from bis pocket a white bandker- 
cbief, be carelessly pressed it upon tbe 
scratches, from which a few crimson drops 
had issued, and, smiling at the wistful ex- 
pression of her fjxce, held them out for her 
inspection. 

“ I hope your dress has suffered no more 
serious injury,” he said. “ Will you go 
now ? ” 

“Yes, certainly.” 

She spoke hurriedly, and again started 
forward, for the Ayre code of propriety was 
very strict, and — what would they think of 
her in the drawing-room ? 

W^hat they would think did not matter 
in the least to Mr. Conway ; so, taking un- 
fair advantage of her evident preoccupation 
of mind, he chose the most circuitous route 
to the house, and then proceeded to open a 
conversation. 

“ Do you know I think we are en rap- 
port^ Miss Lee ? ” he said, in his frank, easy 
manner. “ I fancy that there is what my 
friend Ainslie, who dabbles in metaphys- 
ics, calls a ‘sympathetic intuition ’ between 
us. I cannot imagine, otherwise, why I 
should have known you at once when I saw 
you in that shop this morning; nor why I 
now feel a positive assurance that I need 
not present myself formally to you, by 
mentioning my name.” 

• “I cannot tell why you should have 
known me,” answered Mabel, smiling, and 
blushing a little; “but the reason why I 
knew you is very simple. I have seen your 
likeness.” 

Mr. Conway gave one flashing glance 
at her, and then laughed. 

“ So there goes all my fine theory of 
sympathetic intuition — the way that most 
such theories would go, if we only knew the 
truth, I suspect. I shall tell Ainslie about 
this the next time he bores me with Kant 
and Jean Paul. I wonder if yoii are going 
to deal so summarily with another idea of 
mine — an idea that we shall like each 
other?” 

“ I think I might account for that in 
3 


something of the same way,” replied Mabel, 
glancing up into the dark, handsome face 
that looked down upon her. “You have 
heard iny dear godfather talk of me in a 
way to prepossess liking, and I — ” 

She stopped suddenly, somewhat em- 
barrassed. She certainly had not heard her 
dear godfather speak of him in terms that 
could possibly prepossess liking. 

“And you?” said Mr. Conway, who 
knew perfectly well why she hesitated — 
“ you could scarcely have heard any one 
speak well of me. Do you mean to say 
that we are not to like each other? ” 

She had recovered something of self- 
possession by this time, and looked up now, 
smiling quite archly. 

“You are very kind. But suppose I 
say. Yes ? ” 

“I would not advise it; that is all.” 

“Why not?” 

He gave his careless, graceful shrug. 

“Only because I should construe it into 
a challenge, and, as I am a man who seldom 
suffers execution to fall short of resolve, I 
should end by making you like me whether 
you would or no.” 

“ Indeed I ” 

He had succeeded in piquing her slightly. 
The cool little “ Indeed ” testified to that. 
But it was only very slightly ; for, after a 
moment, she looked up with a sly, flitting 
blush. 

“ I don’t think you need feel yourself 
challenged, Mr. Conway. I have every dis- 
position to like you, for I am sure my dear 
godfather’s nephew must be worth liking.” 

“ Suffer me to remind you that relation- 
ship to your dear godfather is a distinction 
which I possess in common with Mr. Cyril 
Harding.” 

“Well, and what then? I should say 
the same thing to Mr. Harding.” 

“ Then you are very unkind, and a little 
ungrateful, too,” said her companion, smil- 
ing. “ My liking is not based upon any 
such ordinary consideration. I have heard 
my uncle talk of you incessantly ever since 
my arrival, without having once entertained 
the most transient desire to see you ; and 
when your face drew me into the ribbon- 
shop this morning, I should have felt pre- 


34 


MABEL LEE. 


cisely tli« same degree of interest if it Lad 
l;)elonged to Miss Mabel Smith, instead of 
Miss Mabel Lee.” 

What could Mabel say ? It was impossi- 
ble for her to tell him that her liking ante- 
dated even this; and that, from the first 
hour when she saw it on the river, his face 
had never ceased to haunt both her waking 
and sleeping dreams. Fortunately, they 
came in sight of the drawing-room windows, 
and she was spared reply ; for who should 
appear at one of them but Miss Lavinia 
Crane, with the sombre outline of Mr. Hard- 
ing looming behind her — a sight which at 
once banished every thing from Mabel’s 
mind, save the dreadful thought of Ayre 
propriety ! 

“ What will they think of me ? ” she said, 
this time aloud; “and how shall I ever 
again have courage to go in ? ” 

“There is no difficulty about that,” 
answered her companion, encouragingly. 
“Take my advice, and laugh it off care- 
lessly. Suppose we storm one of the win- 
dows? It will be a more informal mode of 
entrance than by the door.” 

Mabel would have agreed to any thing ; 
so they struck across the lawn, Mr. Conway 
drew aside the heavy silken draperies, and 
the next moment they faced that most 
solemn and injured of all assemblages — a 
party of people waiting for dinner. 


CHAPTER VII. 

MR. AINSLIE’s experiment. 

As usual, the anticipation considerably 
transcended the reality. A storm of laugh- 
ter and jesting reproaches greeted the tru- 
ant and her captor ; that was all. The an- 
nouncement of dinner soon banished them 
from the public mind, and there ensued the 
bustle of getting more than thirty people 
into orderly array — a bustle which Mabel 
and her cavalier watched very quietly from 
their window stand-point, until Mrs. Lee 
swept by on the arm of a portly ex-gov- 
ernor. 

“I am very sorry, Mr. Conway,” she 
paused a moment to say, “ but you will have 


to take Mabel into dinner. Everybody else 
has been disposed of, and — ” 

“ Heaven be praised for it ! ” said Mr. 
Conway, devoutly, as the rest of the sen- 
tence was lost in her onward progress. 
“ Do you mean to say now that there is no 
truth in metaphysics, or luck in garden 
rambles. Miss Lee ? ” 

“I don’t know,” answered Miss Lee, a 
little doubtfully. “ Is bringing up the rear 
of a dinner-party proof of either? I hope, 
by-the-by, you don’t mind cold soup, Mr. 
Conway ? ” 

“I prefer it warm, undoubtedly.” 

“ Then we had better move forward, 
for, as it is, I fear we shall hardly obtain 
good seats.” 

They moved forward accordingly, and, 
being the last couple to enter the dining- 
room, drifted into what seats they could; 
and found on one side of them an old lady 
who bad come to enjoy her dinner simply 
for her dinner’s sake, and, on the other, two 
agricultural worthies, whose conversational 
ideas seemed bounded by tobacco-lauds and 
Devon cattle. 

Mr. Conway made a wry face over his 
soup, which was very well cooled indeed ; 
but, for all that, he did not seem to take his 
position much to heart. On the contrary, 
he was evidently in that frame of mind 
common to us all, when, from our own high 
estate of good fortune, or happiness, or 
whatever else it may be, we look with a 
sublime sort of pity on the low estate of 
others. Glancing down the long table, he 
saw his friend Ainslie devoting himself to 
the entertainment of one of the prettiest 
girls in the room, and forthwith, without 
any apparent reason, he told Mabel that he 
was very sorry for him. 

“ Sorry ! ” repeated Mabel, opening her 
eyes. “ Why should you be sorry for him ? 
Because he has not cold soup, like you ? ” 

“No; because he has to entertain that 
young lady wTth pink roses in her auburn 
hair. I tried her awhile before dinner, and 
I found — but I beg pardon, she may be a 
friend of yours.” 

“ She is not exactly a friend of mine,” 
said Mabel, “but I like her very much. 
She is very nice, I assure you.” 


I 


MR. AINSLIE’S 

' “She maybe very nice, but she is the 
farthest in the world from being very inter- 
esting. What is her name ? ” 

“ Nina Eston.” 

“Rather pretty. So is she, barring the 
color of her hair.” 

“ I like red hair,” said Mabel, decidedly. 
“ I agree with the Spaniards in considering 
it a great beauty.” 

“ I like golden hair,” returned Mr. Con- 
v/ay, with a point-blank stare at her own 
locks. “ In my opinion, people should nev- 
er have any other sort. Do you think Ains- 
lie’s hair pretty ? It is red enough to suit 
you.” 

“ On the contrary, it is not half red 
enough to suit me,” said Mabel, looking at 
Ainslie. “ It has a red dash, certainly ; but 
I should call it chestnut.” 

“ Should you ? It’s not my idea at all. 
But I will ask him about it. He is an ar- 
tist, and will know.” 

“ An artist ! ” repeated Mabel, and she 
looked at him again. Then suddenly, with- 
out any connection with what had gone be- 
fore, she asked, “Does he mean to stay long 
at Seyton ? ” 

“ That depends entirely on whether Sey- 
ton proves agreeable to him or not,” Con- 
way answered, carelessly. “His time is 
quite at his own disposal, and he will stay 
as long as he finds it pleasant. Certainly, 
also, he will not leave with my uncle’s 
good-will, for, by some means or other, he 
has quite won his heart.” 

“Everybody seems to like him.” 

“Like is a faint word. I have never 
seen any thing equal his power of fascina- 
tion. He charms people almost without 
an effort, by a single glance, or a single 
word.” 

“I suppose he charmed you in that 
way ? ” 

“No, truly,” answered he, with a laugh. 

“ I am a very cold-blooded person, and al- 
though I like Ainslie tolerably well — better, 
much, than I like most people — yet no one 
could possibly accuse me of being fascinated 
by him. There is very little in common be- 
tween us, yet we agree somehow.” 

“ You will not mind if I ask you a ques- 
tion about him, then ? ” 


EXPERIMEXT. 35 

“Notin the least. I am at your service 
to answer a hundred, if you will.” 

She hesitated a moment, and then glanced 
up, speaking hastily. 

“ Is he a man whom you would trust ? ” 
Mr. Conway looked astonished, as in- 
deed he had sufficient reason for doing. 

“ Trust ! ” he repeated, as if uncertain 
whether he heard her aright. “Yes, I 
should think so, as far as one would feel in- 
clined to trust any man of acknowledged 
integrity, whose honor has never suffered 
by a shade. It cannot be that you have 
ever heard any thing to the contrary? ” 
“No, no, nothing whatever.” 

“Then I hope you do not ask such awk- 
ward questions about all new acquaintances; 
for there are not many people who can 
boast a record so sans reproclie as Ainslie ; 
and I, for one, could ill afford to be judged 
in that way.” 

“You! But I never thought — ” 

“Of questioning my trustworthiness,” 
he said, with a somewhat bitter laugh. “ I 
hope you will not. Miss Lee, for there are 
many besides your friend Mr. Blake who 
will be ready to assure you that no good 
fruit ever came of an evil tree.” 

“ I seldom take my opinions second 
hand,” said Mabel, flushing; “and I should 
no more dream of condemning a man for his 
ancestor’s vices, than I should think it safe 
to trust him on the credit of their virtues.” 

“You are very good to say so,” answered 
he, gratefully. “ There are so few people 
who sympathize with black sheep, that we 
appreciate such liberality of sentiment when 
we find it. Do you know, I don’t think 
there would be half so many of us, if we 
did not feel reckless from being placed so 
mercilessly ‘ under the ban ? ’ ” 

Before dinner was over, the sun went 
down, and, when they all returned to the 
drawing-room, they found its lamps lighted, 
and gleaming in every direction, though the 
windows were still open, and the spring 
dusk was dying away among the blossoms 
outside. The elder people, who had a whole- 
some fear of mists and the like, remained 
within, and settled themselves to whist and 
conversation ; but the younger members of 
the company wandered out to the terrace, 


36 


MABEL LEE. 


and made more than one passer-by on the 
river start at the echo of their clear, young 
voices and ringing laughter. Such sounds 
were not common about Seyton House; and 
the boatman or two who pulled lazily past, 
stared curiously at the windows that sent 
forth broad gleams of light, and the groups 
leaning over the terrace balustrade caught 
the verses of song floating out in the still air, 
and thought, no doubt, that the festive ap- 
pearance of the whole scene was very attrac- 
tive. 

“It looks pleasant, does it not?” said 
Mabel, as she sat with Mr. Harding, near 
one of the windows, and gazed out with 
eyes full of wistful longing. She was very 
young yet, and found it as hard to remain 
quietly in the house and listen to solemn 
dissertations on “the sublime, the heroic, 
and Mr. Carlyle,” while the purple twilight 
gathered, the mocking-birds sang, and the 
gay voices laughed outside, as if she had 
been seven instead of seventeen. “It 
looks pleasant, does it not? But I beg par- 
don. You were saying — ” 

“Nothing of much importance,” said 
Mr. Harding, who did not like to be inter- 
rupted, and who, during the last half hour, 
had arrived at the conclusion that it was a 
great pity that Mabel was so pretty, and a 
still greater pity that she was Mr. Seyton’s 
goddaughter, since, but for those two facts, 
he would have taken himself and his con- 
versational powers where they would have 
been sure of favorable appreciation — “noth- 
ing of much importance. I was only quot- 
ing — but it does not matter. Will you go 
on the terrace. Miss Lee? ” 

“No, thank you,” said Miss Lee, hasti- 
ly ; for, though the terrace in itself was very 
desirable, the terrace, with Mr. Harding for 
a companion, would be worse than the 
drawing-room, inasmuch as there could be 
no hope of rescue there. “ I am very com- 
fortable. Ho you like music, Mr. Harding ? 

I see Nina Eston going to the piano, and we 
think that she sings very flnely. You may 
have heard her. She is first soprano in — ” 

She stopped short, and colored ; where- 
upon Mr. Harding immediately inquired 
where it was that Miss Eston was first so- 
prano. 


“In a place where you are not likely to 
have heard her,” answered Mabel, laughing 
a little at her own stupidity. “ In our 
choir, that is. Her ‘Agnus Dei’ last Sun- 
day was beautiful.” 

At the mere sound of these words, Mr. 
Harding stiffened into reserve and silence. 
He could do a great deal, he could constrain 
himself a great deal, for the sake of the end 
he held in view ; but one thing he couJd not 
do, one point where he could not constrain 
himself, was when people spoke in his pres- 
ence of that Church which, in all sincerity, 
he believed to be the wife of the devil. 
Like Mause Headrigg, his convictions were 
too strong either for policy or courtesy, and 
it became a matter of simple necessity to 
speak his mind freely. 

“No, I never heard Miss Eston,” he 
said. “I am sorry that I am not likely to 
do so when she sings an — an ‘ Agnus Dei,’ 
or any thing of that sort. I hope I am not 
a bigot, Miss Lee, but I hold your churches 
to be the abodes of error, and I never enter 
them.” 

“ I do not think they could possibly 
harm you,” said Mabel, simply. “But 
nothing is so useless as religious discussion. 
How animated they are at the whist-table 
yonder ! Are you fond of whist ? ” 

“I never play it,” answered the evan- 
gelical gentleman, in his most evangelical 
tone. “I disapprove of all games on prin- 
ciple. Backgammon, now, or draughts — ” 

“ Will he ask me to play either of 
them ? ” thought poor Mabel, in consterna- 
tion ; but just then the diversion for which 
she had been longing arrived. There 
was a movement upon her position. Mr. 
Ainslie came to the rescue, and, notwith- 
standing her unfavorable verdict at' din- 
ner, there was no doubt but that Mabel 
was heartily glad to see him — as, indeed, 
she would have been glad to see any one 
who relieved her of the irksome weight of 
Mr. Harding’s attentions. Ainslie had a 
pack of cards in his hand, and, as he sat 
down, was shuffling them. 

“Don’t think that I mean to ask you 
to play any thing,” said he, laughing at the 
expression on Mabel’s face, for it is not 
often that gay seventeen has any liking for 


MR. AINSLIE’S EXPERIMENT. 


37 


cards. “I am something of a conjurer, 
however, and I mean to tell your fortune. 
May 1 ? ” 

“ Of course you may,” answered she, 
smiling. “Isn’t one always glad to have 
one’s fortune told ? The desire of my heart 
has always been to meet a gypsy. Are you 
a gypsy, Mr. Ainslie ? ” 

“For the present, I am any thing you 
choose,” said Mr. Ainslie, gallantly. 

“ ‘ Being your slave, what should I do but tend 
Upon the hours and times of your desire ? ’ 

“Don’t think, however, that this is any 
commonplace or vulgar mode of telling for- 
tunes,” he went on. “ It is something quite 
unique, one of the most peculiar things I 
ever knew, and ” (cutting and shuffling dili- 
gently) “ the accuracy of the result always 
surprises me as much as it surprises or 
could surprise any one else. It was taught 
me by an old Arab with whom I was on 
terms of great intimacy in Algiers. — Hard- 
ing, my good fellow, will you give me 
that stand at your elbow ? Thajiks — much 
obliged. — How, Miss Lee, put your hand on 
these cards. Something of personal mag- 
netism is essential to the success of the ex- 
periment.” 

“ I really thought,” said Mr. Harding, 
with a grim sneer, “that only charlatans 
talked nonsense of that kind.” 

“ Far be it from me to hint that you are 
mistaken,” replied Mr. Ainslie. “We all 
have an element of charlatanry, more or 
less — haven’t we? My element is upper- 
most just now — tliat is all. — Miss Lee, your 
whole hand, if you please. Yes — that is it.” 

Miss Lee obediently placed her hand on 
some cards which he laid before her. Tell- 
ing the fortune, however, proved quite a 
long and rather a complicated undertaking. 
An abstruse calculation of some sort was 
necessary, in which Mr. Ainslie made vari- 
ous mistakes, as amateur conjurers usually 
do, and was various times compelled to re- 
trace his steps, and “go back to the hegin- 
ning.” After he had gone back to the be- 
ginning quite often, Mr. Harding wearied 
of the entertainment, and walked away. 
Conway, who had been watching his oppor- 
tunity, then came forward. 


“Is Ralph showing you his Arabian 
mode of telling fortunes? ” asked he. “It 
is surprising how often he hits the truth. — 
Ainslie, do you remember how incredulous 
Cunningham was when you told him he 
would be married within three months? 
Yet that fast Miss What-was-her-name had 
him in her toils before that time. When I 
reminded him of the cards, he only smiled a 
very ghastly smile. Poor fellow ! He was 
a melancholy example of what comes of 
‘ only spooning ’ with a clever woman ! ” 

“That affair of Rosset was still more 
surprising,” said Ainslie, between the inter- 
vals of counting his cards. 

“ Yes, that was astonishing,” said Con > 
way. — “He was a young fellow in Paris, 
Miss Lee — as well and strong as I am now, 
when Ralph told his fortune for him. The 
cards announced his death within twenty- 
four hours. As you may imagine, he 
laughed at it, and did not let the dismal 
prophecy prevent his starting to Bordeaux 
the next morning. The first news we heard 
was, that there had been a railroad accident 
and Rosset was one of the killed.” 

“But you don’t mean that you think it 
was any thing more than a coincidence! ” 
cried Mabel, somewhat aghast. “ I am in- 
clined to be credulous of marvels, Mr. Con- 
way, but really this is beyond even my 
powers of belief.” 

“I merely state the facts,” answered 
Conway. “Interpret them in any manner 
you please — Ralph, I ani sure, will allow 
you every latitude. You don’t intend to 
believe what he tells you about yourself, 
then ? ” 

“ That depends upon whether or not it 
is pleasant. What is it, Mr. Ainslie? Sure- 
ly you have arrived at some decision by this 
time ! ” 

“ What is it, Ralph ? ” asked Conway, 
noticing that his friend had the cards spread 
out before him, and was intently regarding 
their combinations. 

Thus addressed, Mr. Ainslie started, and, 
somewhat hastily, shuffled the cards to- 
gether again. Then he looked up with a 
smile. 

“ I can make nothing of it,” he said. 
“ It is all utter nonsense — such complete 


38 


M.iBEL LEE. 


nonsense that I decline to risk my conjuring 
reputation upon it. Miss Lee, I will show 
you some genuine juggler’s tricks now.” 

They were very wonderful tricks, in- 
deed, and, before long, the juggler had at- 
tracted round him the major part of Mr. 
Seyton’s guests. Even the whist-players 
forsook their table to see the ace of hearts 
vanish up Mr. Ainslie’s sleeve, and reappear 
under a vase at the farther side of the room. 
The whole company were so charmed that 
when he came to the end of his repertoire 
they gave him a unanimous and enthusias- 
tic encore. 

“ Or, if you don’t want to repeat those 
things,’^ cried Miss Eston, “show us some- 
thing more remarkable. . I know you can if 
you will. He told me at dinner he could 
mesmerize people,” she added, turning to 
the expectant company. “I tell you what 
he shall do — he shall mesmerize 

There was a general laugh at this. 

“ If he succeeds, he will he a wonderful 
person, Hina,” said Mr. Seyton. “I can’t 
fancy you a subject for magnetism — can you, 
Mr. Ainslie? ” 

“I am only an amateur dabbler in the 
science,” said Mr. Ainslie, with becoming 
modesty. “ I doubt if I can succeed in mag- 
netizing anybody, but it will give me pleas- 
ure to try an experiment with Miss Eston.” 

The experiment was tried accordingly, 
and, as a matter of course, failed. The 
would-be subject laughed all the time, and, 
after many passes, and much intent gazing, 
Mr. Ainslie was compelled to declare that it 
was impossible to produce any effect upon 
her. 

“Suppose you try Mabel?” said Miss 
Eston. “ Somehow, I have an idea that you 
would succeed with her.” 

“ I doubt extremely if I would succeed 
with anybody,” said Ainslie, shrugging his 
shoulders. “ Still, if Miss Lee does not ob- 
ject — ” 

But, as it chanced. Miss Lee did object. 
To everybody’s surprise, she shrank from 
the proposal with something almost like 
alarm. 

“I cannot think of such a thing, Mr. 
Ainslie,” she said. “Indeed, I cannot.” 

“There is really nothing to fear,” said 


Mr. Ainslie, with a laugh. “I can make 
the passes — I learned that much from Graf- 
ner, you know, Conway — but I assure you I 
have no idea that I will be able to affect 
you.” 

“ Still I am so fanciful that I shrink from 
the idea, and I really cannot consent to — to 
try it.” 

“ Your temperament and organization 
give some hope of success,” said Mr. Ainslie, 
meditatively. “You would not shrink from 
the influence if it were powerless to affect 
you. I should like to try the experiment, 
but, of course, if you object, I cannot press 
the point.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mabel, looking re- 
lieved. “I am sorry to seem ungracious 
and unwilling to contribute my share to the 
public amusement,” she added, after a mo- 
ment, “ but if you only knew with what a 
nervous shrinking — almost a nervous terror 
— the mere idea fills me — ” 

“ Laugh at it,” said Philip Conway, “ and 
then there will be no fear of his succeed- 
ing.” 

“ That is what she cannot do,” said the 
other, in a tone of perceptible triumph. 

And indeed she could not. The myste- 
rious power already seemed to have influ- 
enced the highly-strung nervous tempera- 
ment on whose exquisite sensitiveness the 
amateur mesmerist reckoned not without 
reason. Seeing how pale she became, Ains- 
lie ceased to urge the experiment upon her ; 
but others crowded around by this time, 
and beset her resolution with numberless 
entreaties. 

“Mabel, do! ” 

“ Mabel, pray do ! ” 

“Mabel, you surely have not the heart 
to disappoint us so.” 

“ Dear me^ Mabel, how can you be such 
a coward ? ” 

“ O Mabel, try to oblige us.” 

Last came Mr. Seyton, saying : 

“ My pet, you can gratify these foolish 
people.” 

And then, Constance : 

“ Darling, will you try to do it, or shall 
I send them all away ? ” 

In this strait, Mabel looked up at Philip 
Conway. If he had said, “Don’t,” she 


MR. AINSLIE’S EXPERIMENT. 


niiglit have withstood them all. But he, 
too, was curious to try the experiment ; he, 
too, only thought her terror the fanciful 
child of ignorance; so he only asked: 

“Do you think your courage is equal 
to the venture now? ” 

And, with a sigh, she answered “yes.” 

The eager group drew near, forming a 
hollow square about them, while Ainslie 
fixed his eyes upon her with a concentrated 
expression, and, slowly and at intervals, 
made the passes. From the very first it 
was evident how rightly he had judged that 
she was entirely susceptible to the influ- 
ence ; for, although there was a good deal 
of laughter and whispered comment going 
on, her attention never once wandered from 
his face ; her gaze never once wavered from 
the deep, brilliant eyes that regarded her so 
steadfastly. After a while the pupils of her 
own eyes began to dilate perceptibly, and 
then a subtile difference of expression grad- 
ually came over the face — a difference that 
it was impossible for any one present 
to analyze — but that every one perceived. 
A sudden accession of interest came over 
them all, and then — 

“Mabel,” cried an audacious voice in the 
rear, “ how do you feel now ? ” 

Mr. Ainslie lifted his hand in quick re- 
monstrance, but it was too late. Without 
removing her eyes, Mabel answered, drop- 
ping her syllables slowly one by one, as if 
already she had spoken under the influence 
of another power than that of mere personal 
volition : 

“I feel strangely happy — strangely at 
rest. But I also feel powerless — bound fast 
— under a spell, as it were. A cold, waver- 
ing flame seems creeping over me. I feel 
it tingling like the charge of an electric bat- 
tery. But it does not shock, it does not 
burn, it only seems to pervade me with — ” 

At that moment the brilliant, steady eyes 
seemed to fix themselves upon her with 
fresh power, and the words were hushed on 
her lip. Still looking at him, she suddenly 
relapsed into silence, and the strange, subtile 
expression — the change which no one could 
define — deepened and deepened upon her 
face, until it seemed to pervade and take 
entire possession of it. Then he bent down 


J9 

gently, and breathed slightly on her fore- 
head, remaining in the attitude for a second, 
perhaps. The least interested among the 
lookers on had not time to grow impatient, 
however, before he stepped away, for all to 
see the result. She was leaning against 
the back of her chair, with the careless, un- 
conscious grace of profound slumber, while 
its deep crimson velvet threw into relief her 
tinted face, her golden curls, and airy mus- 
lin dress. Yet not the most ignorant per- 
son present could have supposed for a mo- 
ment that what they saw was slumber; for 
the eyes were open, though vacant, as if 
sleep-walking ; the brow slightly contracted, 
but evidently not by pain, for the lips were 
faintly smiling, and the hands fell loosely, 
and relaxed on eitlier side. 

There was a moment’s profound hush — 
a moment in which awe rushed suddenly 
over every heart that had been laughing and, 
mocking five seconds before — and then Mr. 
Ainslie’s voice broke on the stillness : 

“ There, my friends, is an answer for all 
who doubt the truth or power of mesmer- 
ism.’’ 

Then broke forth a many-voiced ques- 
tion : 

“ Is she mesmerized? ” 

The answer was deep and almost sol- 
emn : 

“ She is mesmerized.” 

They gathered around close, and yet 
closer, touching her, speaking to her, lifting 
the passive hands, and proving, by every 
means in their power, how deep and perfect 
was the magnetic trance. Stir and move- 
ment there were none. Save for the regu- 
lar breathing and the relaxation of every 
muscle, it might have been death instead of 
life on which they gazed. To Mr. Ainslie 
himself, Mrs. Lee was the first one to utter 
a direct inquiry bearing upon the state. 

“ Good heavens ! how frightful it looks ! ” 
she cried, with a shudder. “ Mr. Ainslie— 
of course I don’t mean to doubt your word 
— but are you sure there is no danger in 
it?”. 

“ Danger, my dear madam ? ” said Ains- 
lie, with a smile. “ What danger could 
there be? If there had been the least pos- 
sibility of it, do you think I would have 


MABEL LEE. 


iO 

asked Miss Lee to submit to the experi- 
ment ? ” 

“ But she looks so dreadfully. Make her 
do something, say something, to show that 
she is alive.” 

“ I am not at all sure that I can,” said 
Ainslie, looking at Conway, who was lean- 
ing over the back of the chair, close to the 
place where Mabel’s bead rested. “J am 
entirely an amateur ; and this result is al- 
most as unexpected to me as to any one else. 
However, I will try. What shall I ask 
her?” 

Conway, at whom he was looking, an- 
swered before Mrs. Lee could speak. 

“ Ask her, my dear fellow, what was 
the fortune prophesied by the cards a little 
while ago.” 

Ainslie changed color — all the curious 
lookers-on noticed that — ^and hesitated for a 
moment. 

“ You would only have my word for the 
accuracy of her reply,” he said at last. “I 
— you better ask something which would be 
a more satisfactory proof, Phil.” 

“I will take your word concerning the 
accuracy,” said Conway in his easy way, 
which could yet be a very obstinate way, 
“ and this proof will be quite satisfactory 
enough. Ask her, Ealph — I insist upon 
it.” 

“ But it is nonsense,” persisted Ainslie. 
“ The fortune was no fortune at all. I made 
a mistake in the calculation, and it came to 
nothing ; I told you that ! ” 

“ Yes, you told me that,” said the other, 
dryly. “I am not a member of the honor- 
able corps of marines, however, and I knew 
better ! Come, make haste — Miss Lee will 
wake up if you wait much longer.” 

“Ask her, Mr. Ainslie!” cried the vox 
■po'puli. “You must ask her ! ” 

Mr. Ainslie shrugged his shoulders as he 
had shrugged them several times before, 
gave Conway a glance which did not savor 
overmuch of gratitude, and then turned to 
Mabel. When he asked the question, she 
answered at once, but in a dreamy voice, 
as of one who replied from some far-off 
region. 

“ The combinations were peculiar,” she 
said. “ Three times the same result was ob- 


tained. The prophecy was of impending 
trouble, and an early, tragical death.” 

“Is that true? ” said Conway, in a low 
tone to Ainslie. . 

“ It is quite true,” answered the other. 
“ I did not like to tell her the result aftei 
those stories you had been relating — but, 
queerly enough, she has hit upon it.” 

“Was she right? Is it true?” asked 
those around, eagerly. When they heard 
that it was true, something like an awe set- 
tled upon them. The superstition latent in 
human nature asserted itself immediately. 
The tone of the unconscious girl had been 
more even than her words. Jesting gave 
way to gravity, and the least impressionable 
could not resist a feeling that she had been 
reading her own doom in that strange, un- 
impassioned voice. Folly? Yes, folly, of 
course, and very dangerous folly, but yet 
folly to which we are all exceedingly prone. 
Then they had been wrought up by such 
gradual degrees that they were really not 
very much to blame. Some ladies grew 
pale, others shuddered, and the general im- 
pression seemed to be that Mabel had bet- 
ter be roused. Mr. Seyton, however, inter- 
posed. 

“One moment,” .said he. “You are 
sure there is no sutfering in the state? ” 

“ Perfectly sure, but, if you desire it, I 
can ask herself.” 

He turned back again, and put the ques- 
tion. It was answered at once in the nega- 
tive. 

“ I feel strangely happy ; strangely at 
rest,” Mabel reiterated. “There seems to 
be a sea of light and sweet odor around me. 
It is only when you lay your hands on me, 
as you are doing now, that I feel the cold, 
wavering flame flickering up and down.” 

“But the flame is not painful? ” 

“ No ; only strange.” 

“ Do you object to remaining in the state 
a little longer ? ” 

“ No ; not in the least.” 

Mr. Ainslie looked round at his host. 

“ Are you satisfled, sir? ” he inquired. 

“Sufiiciently satisfled to ask you to give 
us one more proof of magnetic influence, be- 
fore you rouse her,” Mr. Seyton answered. 
“ I have heard, or read, that a mesmerist, 


TAKING COUNSEL. 


41 


b} tbe mere exercise of bis will, can sum- 
mon his subject to him from any distance. 
Show us that, and we will credit your phe- 
nomenon.” 

“ I will do it,” said Ainslie. 

This time he did not qualify his words 
by adding, “ I will try ; ” for it was evident 
that the realization of his own power was 
coming to him by degrees, and that he now 
felt little or nothing of the doubt and un- 
certainty he had experienced at first. 

“I will do it,” he said; and his eyes 
brightened, and a fiush rose over his face at 
the proposal. 

Come, then,” said Mr. Seyton, “ come 
everybody — we will go to the library and 
see if he can summon her.” 

Nobody spoke a dissenting word, for ex- 
citement and interest were now at their 
height. Only Constance declared her in- 
tention of remaining behind with her sister, 
and was accordingly left. 

The rest proceeded to the library, which 
was on the same floor, and made one of the 
suite of the drawing-room. Several apart- 
ments intervened, however, so that the test, 
if it succeeded at all, would be very com- 
plete. There was some confusion when 
they entered, for only a single shaded lamp 
burned on one of the tables, diffusing a sort 
of mellow moonlight which made the tran- 
sition from the brilliantly-lighted rooms 
through which they had passed, almost that 
of darkness: but, after a while, their eyes 
grew accustomed to the demi-obscure, and 
they found that they could see each other 
with perfect distinctness. They all grouped 
themselves about the room in various posi- 
tions ; but, immediately beside the table, 
Ainslie took his stand. 

“Be perfectly quiet now,” he said, ad- 
dressing the company in general. And then 
he raised his hand in the attitude of his first 
pass, and fixed his eyes intently on the 
closed door — fixed them so intently, so 
steadily, with such burning power, that 
Miss NinaEston told Mr. Harding in a whis- 
per that slie was sure he saw through it. 
Several minutes of profound silence fol- 
lowed, during which the mesmerist rlid not 
move even as much as a muscle, and every 
eye in the room was eagerly and anxiously 


turned toward the door. Would it prove a 
failure at last? Would she remain uninflu- 
enced? No. Hark! was it not a light step, 
a faint rustle, an advancing movement? 
Almost as they asked themselves the ques- 
tion, and doubted in their own minds 
whether their nerves were not sufficiently 
excited for them to imagine any thing, the 
door suddenly opened wide, and there on 
the threshold, with the same strange, sleep- 
waking gaze, stood Mabel Lee ! 

Everybody present looked at his or her 
neighbor, and then back again to the mes- 
merized girl, in speechless astonishment. 
Then, before the hush was broken by even 
one word, a slender figure passed Mabel, 
and touched Mr. Ainslie’s arm. 

“ I cannot bear it ! It is too awful ! ” 
Constance said. “ Wake her — wake her I ” 

“We will take her back to the dining- 
room first,” he answered, quietly. “ It will 
be better to rouse her there.” 

“ I will take her back, if you please.” 

“ No ; you must stand away. Miss Lee, 
— she will follow no one but me.” 

A few minutes later he was making the 
reverse passes, while Governor Eston looked 
on good-humoredly. ^ 

“It is my turn next,” he said. “lam 
curious to know if you will get the better 
of w«.” 

But he was destined not to be gratified 
by this knowledge ; for just then Mabel 
began to move in a natural manner. After 
a moment she sat upright, and looked round 
her with a wild, bewildered stare, which 
lasted until her glance fell on Ainslie. Then 
she gave one shuddering cry, and sank back 
fainting into Constance’s arms. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

I 

TAKING COUNSEL. 

Many days elapsed after this before any 
one saw Mabel’s face beyond her chamber- 
door. She was borne out of the room in an 
insensible condition that night, and, a week 
later, her mother and sister were still de- 
tained with her at Seyton House. For, in 
truth, she was ill, as people of exquisite or- 


42 


MABEL LEE. 


ganizations alone can be — prostrated in 
mind and body, thoroughly unstrung and 
almost childish in the nervous terrors that 
beset her — terrors so fanciful and so con- 
tinual, that only the utmost care was able 
to prevent their assuming the form of de- 
lirium. 

“ It is nothing but that miserable foolery 
which is the matter,” said the doctor, too 
angry to be very careful in the selection of 
terms. “I am not surprised at your moth- 
er, Miss Constance, but I am surprised at 
you. You ought to have known your sis- 
ter’s temperament better than to have al- 
lowed such a thing. You certainly ought 
to be aware that you can’t tamper with her 
as you can with other people. Or, if you 
do, by George, madam, you’ll simply end by 
putting her in a lunatic asylum ! ” 

“But doctor, how could I think — ” 
Constance began, only the doctor was al- 
ready gone, fretting and fuming as he went. 

Like all the rest of the Ayre people, he 
loved Mabel as his own child ; and it enraged 
him to see how little her nearest friends un- 
derstood the care with which she should be 
treated. 

“ They seem to forget all about her fa- 
ther,” he said to his wife, when he was de- 
scribing her illness and its cause — “they 
seem to forget all about her father ; and 
they seem to know nothing whatever about 
herself, or her peculiar organization. Her 
silly mother might be excused; but Miss 
Constance ” — and that was the point to 
which he always came back. Poor Con- 
stance had a good deal to bear during those 
days of Mabel’s continued illness — the 
doctor’s censure, her mother’s reproaches, 
Mr. Seyton’s nervous anxiety, Mr. Ainslie’s 
self-blame, and, above all, her own doubts 
and fears. But then she was formed to 
bear all sorts of things, and it is to be hoped 
it did not go very hard with her, there- 
fore. 

At last, however, Mabel came forth to 
the outer world, herself once more, although 
it was a very pale and drooping self, with a 
strangely nervous manner, and a shade of 
terror in her eyes, the first time she was 
forced to meet Mr. Ainslie, and hear his 
earnest apologies and self-reproaches. 


“ It was really nothing — (<nly I was so 
very foolish,” she said; and then she es- 
caped from him, as soon as she possibly 
could, being glad of an interruption even 
from Mr. Harding. 

Mr. Ainslie watched her as she moved 
away, with an expression of great chagrin 
on his face ; and then he turned to Con- 
stance. They were all together, on the ter- 
race, and he had nothing to do but move 
toward the balustrade where she was lean- 
ing. 

“ I am afraid your sister will never for- 
give me for that unhappy blunder of mine,” 
he said, in a tone of deep self-vexation. “ I 
wish — I wish I could do something to con- 
vince her how deeply I regret it.” 

“ Indeed you are mistaken,” Constance 
said, earnestly. “Forgive you! she does 
not attach the least blame to you. How 
could she ? She only blames herself ; and 
if she rather avoids you — ” 

“ She does, undoubtedly.” 

“It is only because you are associated 
with the recollection of her sufferings — not 
because there is any question of her forgiving 
you.” 

“I shall never forgive myself,” he said, 
with evident sincerity — and then he added 
nothing more, but stood looking down into 
the clear wmter far below, and scarcely 
heeding, as it seemed, the light ripple of 
talk and laughter around him. Mabel’s re- 
appearance had made a great change in the 
atmosphere at Seyton House, and the spirits 
of its inmates. Mrs. Lee relapsed from a 
state of actively injured feeling, into one 
that was merely passive. Mr. Seyton was 
fairly radiant with pleasure, and the trio of 
gentlemen guests all betokened satisfaction 
— each in his own way. Mr. Harding 
showed his in solemn and verbose con- 
gratulations ; Mr. Ainslie in freely-ex- 
pressed relief and self-reproach, and Mr. 
Conway in an intangible change of mannei 
and appearance, which was easily to be ob- 
served, but hardly to be described. Nobody 
had taken much notice of him or his state 
of feeling, while Mabel was sick; but, if 
they had done so, they would have found 
that his concern was much more sincere 
and unaffected than could have been ex- 


TAKING COUNSEL. 


43 


pected, from a man of his stamp, for a girl, 
however pretty, whom he had known only 
for the space of one evening. Whatever 
were the reasons — and Philip Conway was 
not a man much given to self-analysis — at any 
rate he had been, to say the least of it, very 
uncomfortable. He had smoked number- 
less cigars, up and down the garden-paths 
where he had first spoken to her, and 
whence he commanded a view of her win- 
dow, with Constance’s slender figure and 
graceful profile passing and repassing be- 
fore it ; and he cut Ainslie very short, in- 
deed, when the latter suggested that the 
mesmerism experiment was perhaps most of 
all his (Conway’s) fault, since Mabel had 
left the final decision to him. 

“ How could I tell that you were going 
to treat her in that way ?” he demanded, 
sharply. “ I was a fool to trust you, per- 
haps; but you certainly assured me that 
the confounded thing could do no harm.” 

“ Harm ! ” said Ainslie, who was astride 
of his hobby immediately. “Harm, my 
dear fellow? It would be the greatest 
benefaction of the age. It will supersede 
the old system of philosophy and science, 
by a newer, broader, grander — ” 

“Humbug! ” concluded the other, turn- 
ing on his heel. “ If you want to hear my 
opinion, it is simply this : d — n it ! ” 

At the present time, Mr. Conway did 
not form one of the terrace group — having 
gone down to Ayre on some business or 
some pleasure of his own, which he did not 
trouble himself to explain — but it chanced 
that just as Mabel was moving away from 
Mr. Ainslie, with the saturnine Harding, a 
light boat shot into sight, and paused just 
below them, at the foot of the bluff. 

“I cannot conceive that the sunset ef- 
fecfs of Italy are more beautiful than those 
which adorn our horizons,” Mr. Harding 
was saying, in his pompous style. “ The 
masses of crimson clouds yonder are so ad- 
mirably relieved by — ” 

“Tliere is Mr. Conway,” said Mabel, 
breaking in quite abruptly. “ Surely he 
will not think of coming up the face of the 
bluff. It is said to be quite dangerous, and 
— ah ! but he is ! ” 

He was indeed ; for he had caught sight | 


of the sweet face leaning over the balus- 
trade above him, and instead of skirting 
round to the regular landing-place, he 
sprang ashore just at the foot of the bluff, 
and commenced the ascent, with the quick, 
.agile ease of a trained climber. 

“ Oh, how rash, how foolish ! ” cried 
Mabel, breathlessly. “ Speak to him, Mr. 
Harding, please. TeU him to go back ! If 
he makes only one false step — ” 

“He is hardly likely to do that,” 'said 
Mr. Harding, who felt in truth profoundly 
indifferent as to whether he did or not. 

“ As I was about to remark, the deep 
blue of the sky relieves so admirably those 
gorgeous — ” 

“ Ah 1 ” cried Mabel, with a little scream, 
as a large stone fell with a loud splash into 
the water below. 

“ My dear, how you jar one’s nerves ! ” 
said her mother, petulantly. 

“What is the matter, 'petite V' asked 
Mr. Seyton, quickly. 

Petite was spared reply, for at the mo- 
ment Philip Conway gained the top of the 
terrace, lightly vaulted over the balustrade, 
and stood fiushed, smiling, and handsome, 
by her side. 

“ How could you do it ? ” she cried, ig- 
noring all other greetings, though she had 
not seen him before since the evening of the 
unfortunate experiment. “ You might have 
broken your neck — and all for nothing! 
How could you do it? ” 

“ How could I help doing it, rather — • 
when I caught a glimpse of your face ? ” ho 
answered, lightly. “ There was no fear of 
my neck — I have climbed too often for that 
— but, if there had been, I think I should 
have done the same, to tell you five minutes 
sooner how glad I am to see you again.” 

“I am glad to be seen once more,” Ma- 
bel replied ; and the warm blood which was 
dying her cheeks made her look so much 
like her usual self, that Mr. Conway began 
to consider that the most of his discomfort 
on her account had been suffered without 
cause. 

“ Are you? ” he said. “ Then I wonder 
you kept yourself hidden so long. It would 
be impossible to tell what we have all en- 
dured in the way of self-reproach ; and, for 


u 


MABEL LEE. 


my part, I shall never know a qniet con- 
science again until you assure me of your 
forgiveness for my share in that wretched 
business.” 

“ I have nothing to forgive,” Mabel 
answered, very much as she answered Mr. 
Ainslie ; but ah ! in such a different tone. 
“ I was foolish, that was all. It is I who 
ought to beg everybody’s pardon, for the 
trouble and commotion I caused.” 

“ Everybody’s pardon is freely granted, 
with everybody’s heart,” he said, gayly. 
“But ought you to be out here without any 
wrapping ? ” 

“Oh, I think so. The evening is so beau- 
tiful.” 

“Is it not? As I came down the river 
I thought I had never seen any thing more 
perfect than the whole effect of time and 
scene. Will you let me row you a little 
way? I am sure you would enjoy it.” 

“I am sure of it, too. But mamma 
would never consent.” 

“ Why not? There’s nothing the matter 
with the evening. I’m sure. It is as charm- 
ing as tlie first of June ought to be ; and — I 
am determined you shall go. — Harding, my 
dear fellow, if you will bring Miss Lee a 
scarf from the house, we may allow you to 
accompany us.” 

Mr. Harding was so entirely taken by 
surprise, that for the moment he had no 
excuse ready, so he walked away, in search 
of the desired scarf, while Mabel looked re- 
proachfully at her companion. 

“ You have given Mr. Harding that 
trouble for nothing,” she said. “ They will 
never let me go.” 

“ Indeed I am not sure of that,” an- 
swered he. “I am just going to try my 
power of persuasion on Mrs. Lee.” 

“It is scarcely worth while; for Con- 
stance will make her say no.” 

“ Perhaps it is to Miss Lee, then, to 
whom I should appeal? ” 

Mabel shook her head with a laugh. 

“That would be quite useless. Con- 
stance is not to be moved — even by your 
persuasions.” 

“If you say that, I shall certainly try 
it.” 

“Do.” 


I “Are you in earnest? ” 

! “Yes, for I am sure you will fail.” 

“That savors of a challenge,” he said. 
And he forthwith took himself over to Con- 
stance. He returned shortly, however, look- 
ing decidedly crestfallen. 

“ Miss Lee is adamant,” he said. “ I am 
sorry, for we would enjoy it very much ; 
and there is really not the least danger of 
your taking cold. However, let us go and 
look at the Brazilian plant. There is no 
doubt of your being allowed to do that, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ Ho,” replied Mabel, with a little laugh ; 
and they strolled away in the direction of 
the gardens. 

They had scarcely disappeared, when Mr. 
Harding returned, laden with a large shawl 
which he had taken, in despair, from one 
of the hall-tables ; and which would quite 
have sufficed to smother Mabel. 

“What! have they gone?” he cried, 
looking round him as he came out, and 
missed two faces from the circle. 

“Conway and Miss Lee have gone, if 
that is what you mean,” said Mr. Ainslie, 
carelessly. “ What are you going to do 
■with that shawl ? ” 

“ They sent for it — Miss Lee sent for it, 
that is. Where is she ? In the boat? ” 

“In the boat! Ho, of course not. She 
has gone to the garden.” 

“ To the garden! But she said she was i 
going on the river.” ! 

Mr. Ainslie laughed. They were a little j 
apart from the others, so he could say pretty ; 
much what he pleased without fear of being I 
overheard. \ 

“My dear fellow,” he said, “a man of \ 
your age is not surely just beginning to learn 
that to say one thing and mean another, is 
quite second nature with women. If Miss 
Lee said that she was going on the river, 
no doubt she meant that she was going in 
the garden.” 

“Humph!” (with something of a i 
growl), “ I suppose Conway persuaded her.” 

“ Ho doubt Conway did.” 

“ Confound him ! ” said Mr. Harding, in f 
a very far from evangelical tone ; and then jf 
he walked away. | 

How, before proceeding further, it may I 


TAKING COUNSEL. 


45 


be as well to state that Mr. Harding had 
heard from his Phifer and Crane friends 
the rumor which gave Mr. Seyton credit 
for intending to find an heir for his estate 
and a husband for his goddaughter at the 
same time and in the same person, and that 
he believed it. Indeed, to him, as to the 
Ayre world, nothing seemed more likely. 
Everybody knew how richly the master of 
Seyton House would endow Mabel Lee, if 
family honor did not stand in the way. 
And what, therefore, could be more prob- 
able than that he desired to give her the 
heritage in the only practicable manner, by 
making her the wife of one of his nephews? 
In reality, such an idea had never once en- 
tered Mr. Seyton’s head. But the world in 
which he lived gave him credit for it, and, 
what was more to the purpose, Cyril Hard- 
ing did so likewise. Having once made up 
his mind that this was his uncle’s intention, 
h6 was not long in also making up his mind 
to strain every nerve to win Mabel’s favor ; 
since Mabel’s favor was an essential condi- 
tion of heirship. Of course it is unnecessary 
to say that all of Mr. Harding’s grandilo- 
quent professions of desiring his cousin’s 
success, had been but lip-deep ; and that in 
reality he would scarcely have hesitated at 
any means short of actual dishonesty, to ob- 
tain the rich heritage which he had so long 
been taught to expect. From his earliest 
infancy, two things had been sedulously in- 
stilled into his mind : one was dislike and 
distrust of his cousin, Philip Conway ; the 
other, a longing to be master of Seyton 
House. “My brother is a very eccentric 
man in some respects,” his mother would 
loftily say, “but he is not lacking either in 
sense or principle, and he will never hesitate 
between a high-minded Christian gentleman, 
and a card-playing adventurer, like my 
sister Adela’s unfortunate son.” in this 
view of the case, the high-minded Christian 
gentleman entirely coincided ; and although 
he was a good enough sort of man in his 
way. and after the fashion of his narrow- 
minded class, yet the desire for this inherit- 
ance had so taken possession of him, that 
Philip Conway, adventurer though he was, 
might, in comparison, have been esteemed 
almost disinterested. Ho doubt the latter 


was sufiiciently a man of the world, and had 
sufifered keenly enough the most real forms 
of pecuniary difficulty and destitution, to 
appreciate fully all the advantages that 
would result from the possession of what 
seemed his natural heritage, but his was 
not a mercenary nature, and mercenary cal- 
culations were simply impossible to him. 
Money was an excellent thing in his opin- 
ion, and well worth having, for all the 
pleasure and freedom it would bring; but 
money, ^ for mere money’s sake — the gay, 
reckless philosophy of the man knew liter- 
ally nothing of such a thing. “My poor 
boy,” his mother would sometimes say, 
when creditors were particularly unpleasant, 
or something else had gone wrong, “ per- 
haps some day all this will end — perhaps 
some day you will be master of Seyton 
House.” 

“ I would not advise you to count on it, 
madre the young soldier of fortune 

would reply. “ My uncle will hardly ever 
trust his rich acres to my hands. And in- 
deed I do not think I should know myself 
if I were metamorphosed into any thing half 
so staid and respectable as the master of 
Seyton House.” 

He began to think, however, that he 
might know himself, and feel his circum- 
stances to be very pleasant, as he walked by 
Mabel Lee’s side, dowm the broad garden-al- 
leys, with luxuriant shrubs, and trim-clipped 
hedges on either side, with the bright 
June sunshine slanting over the flower-beds, 
and making the river a streani' of molten 
gold, with the stately old house behind him, 
and the broad fields of the Seyton heritage 
stretching away far as the eye could reach. 
Yes, it was a happy, peaceful spot of earth, 
and for once the charm of pastoral beauty 
and content entered even into his restless, 
\Yayward heart. For a while he forgot the 
reckless adventure, the hard play and fast 
habits that had made his life, and thought 
to himself that the man whom Mabel Lee 
should love, and whom Mr. Seyton should 
make his heir, need ask no better fate. 
Cyril Harding w^as thinking the same thing, 
about the same time ; but it was in a difier- 
ent way, and with the two conditions re- 
versed. 


46 


MABEL LEE. 


Meanwhile, Mr. Ainslie was devoting 
himself to the amusement of Mr. Seyton 
and his two lady guests, and bringing those 
fascinating qualities, for which everybody 
gave him credit, into such conspicuous re- 
lief, that even Constance was thoroughly 
charmed. Perhaps he knew this as well as 
she did, for when the two elders began to 
complain of the river-mist, and adjourned 
into the drawing-room, where Mr. Harding 
was already sulking by himself, he asked 
her to remain on the terrace awhile. 

“ I will not detain you long,” he said, as 
she assented, “ though I really think they 
are mistaken about the mist. Perhaps you 
may find it chilly, though. Shall I get you 
a shawl ? ” 

“Thank you, no. I do not think it at 
all chilly, but very delightful.” 

“Yes, very delightful,” he said, a little 
absently. Then, after a moment, he went on 
quite abruptly : “ Miss Lee, I am about to 
ask and be guided by your advice, in a diffi- 
culty which is troubling me ; and, lest you 
should think that such a declaration sounds 
rather jiresumptuous, I shall begin by say- 
ing that it concerns your sister — partly, at 
least.” 

“ I am all attention,” Constance an- 
swered, smiling slightly, for she could not 
imagine what this opening prefaced. “ Any 
thing that concerns my sister interests me, 
of course. And even if not — well, I hardly 
think I should consider you presumptuous.” 

“I am afraid you will consider me fool- 
ish, then,” he said, “ for in truth my diffi- 
culty is of my own making — and by no 
means great. Briefly, then, you may have 
heard that Mr. Seyton is anxious for me to 
paint a likeness of his goddaughter, and 
that I consented, or rather proposed to do 
so.” 

Yes, Constance said; she had heard it. 

“ Well,” Mr. Ainslie went on, “the diffi- 
culty is simply this : will not the fulfilment 
of that promise cost your sister a great deal 
of annoyance? I am afraid she cannot 
cease to connect me with that unfortunate 
experiment, and the suffering it caused, so I 
scarcely feel as if I should be acting well — 
as if, indeed, I should have any right — to 
force myself upon her in the connection 


which this would necessitate. Yet I am 
very anxious to gratify Mr. Seyton, and to 
return in some sort his kindness. So it is 
simply come to this : I cannot decide myself, 
and I am constrained to ask you to do so. 
You know your sister, and you know 
whether her prejudice is invincible, so you 
can best say whether or not I shall resign 
the attempt, or persevere.” 

He paused, evidently waiting for her to 
speak; hut Constance scarcely knew how 
to do so. She appreciated his difficulty, and 
felt sorry for him ; but she could not say 
that she thought Mabel’s [mejudice likely to 
be overcome, or that the portrait-painting 
would not be a great trial to her. But there 
was Mr. Seyton to be considered, as well as 
Mr. Ainslie himself ; in short, she felt what 
she had often felt before in more important 
matters, that the web of life has a great 
many threads, and that some of them are 
exceedingly difficult to manage. 

“ Indeed, I am doubtful what I ought to 
say,” she answered at length. “I might as 
well be frank with you, and acknowledge 
that you are not mistaken in thinking that 
Mabel still associates you with the experi- 
ment which had such an unfortunate effect 
on her. But, further than tliat, I do not 
know. Whether or not this association will 
continue, I cannot say. But I am almost 
sure it will yield in time, and — and — ” 

“ You would counsel me to try? ” 

“ Yes ; I would counsel you to try. She 
is so gentle that she does not know what 
resentment is ; and the vague terror which 
is connected with you now cannot surely 
last. At least this is my opinion, and it 
would be a great pity to disappoint Mr. 
Seyton.” 

“Yes, it would be a great pity,” he said, 
musingly. And then he was quite silent, 
and stood looking across the river toward 
the distant blue hills, the outlines of which 
melted into the soft summer gloaming. 
Constance watched him, scarcely under- 
standing the half-wistful expression of his 
face ; but thoroughly vexed with Mabel for 
the unreasonable prejudice and caprice 
which had placed him in such a position. 

“ Mr. Ainslie,” she said at last, with a 
sudden impulse, “I really think you mag- 




TAKING COUNSEL. 


4Y 


nify the extent cf Mabel’s feeling — I am 
almost sure of it. I have never spoken to 
her on the subject, but I will do so, and — ” 

“No,” he interrupted quickly, “pray 
don’t attempt that. I would not like for 
Miss Lee to put any compulsion on herself, 
as far as I am concerned, and I believe that 
is the only elfect produced by remonstrance 
in such a case.” 

“I have no intention of remonstrating,” 
Constance answered. “ I only mean to ask 
Mabel which is right, you or 1. If I am 
right, your difficulty is at an end, for she 
will be very willing to gratify her godfather, 
by sitting to you.” 

“I hope so, for Mr. Seyton’s sake,” he 
said. 

And there the matter ended — at least 
between these two. But Constance called 

f Mabel to account that night, and after infi- 
nite difficulty extorted a promise that she 
F would submit to the ordeal. 

‘ “ But you have very little idea of how I 

dread it, or how I shrink from that man,” 
Mabel said. “ I’ll do it, darling, if you say 
I must; but I scarcely think I can do it cor- 
dially.” 

■ “Then you had better not do it at all,” 
2 Constance answered, more shortly than she 
» often spoke to Mabel. “ If you behave un- 
graciously about it, you will only make the 
matter one of prolonged discomfort to Mr. 
Ainslie; and he feels badly enough about 
your dislike and avoidance now. Mabel, it 
is not like you to act so unkindly and so un- 
reasonably.” 

“ Unkindly ! unreasonably ! ” repeated 
Mabel, who was sitting half undressed on 
the side of the bed, with her bright golden 
hair all about her like a cloud. “ I — I never 
thought that any one could consider — in- 
deed, dear, I never thought at all. I have 
no dislike to Mr. Ainslie — when I am away 
from him. I feel toward him just as I 
‘ might toward any other indifferent stranger. 
But when I see him, and hear him talk, a 
repugnance comes over me which I could 
not control if my life depended upon it.” 

“ A repugnance of what sort ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? It is a desire to rush 
«way from him at any cost, which makes 
me think that there must be more fear than 


simple dislike in it. The very glance of his 
eye seems to have an influence over me, like 
— like that night. Constance — ” 

“Well, dear? ” said Constance, who be- 
gan to feel a little uneasy, as she saw how 
the pupils of Mabel’s eyes dilated. 

“He could do what he pleased with 
me,” said Mabel, in a half whisper. “That 
is what frightens me so. Constance, when- 
ever I am in his presence, I feel it coming 
over me — that awful powerlessness, which 
— but I cannot talk of it. Darling, I think I 
should go crazy, I really do, if I were much 
with him. Don’t ask me to sit to him. I 
could not.” 

Constance made no reply for a moment. 
She was leaning against the toilet-table, 
looking at her sister very gravely, and in 
truth much undecided about her next words. 

Francis Nowell often warned Constance 
that Mabel was too much humored in the 
nervous fancies to which she was prone, and 
that a sterner course of treatment would be 
better for her health of mind. But, on the 
other hand, the doctor’s caution came back 
to her recollection, together with a vague, 
shadowy fear that had always lain at her 
own heart — the fear of her father’s fate. 
Judgment, however, inclined very much to 
Mr. Nowell’s theory, and when at last she 
spoke, it was with somewhat severe empha- 
sis. 

“Mabel, this is childish folly. I begin 
to believe that Francis is right. You yield 
to fancies of this kind, until you grow mor- 
bid. If you once made a resolute effort to 
overcome them, you could do it.” 

“You think I could ever learn to toler- 
ate Mr. Ainslie ? ” 

“I am sure of it. Indeed, why not? 
He is a frank, pleasant gentleman, who is 
deeply wounded by your resentment; for, 
remember, it looks like resentment. Once 
more, I must say that it is not like you to 
act so.” 

“Well, then, I will try and not act so 
any longer,” said Mabel, with a wistful light 
in her eyes, which her sister remembered 
long afterward. “Dear, you must forgive 
my fiincies. Perhaps Francis is right in be- 
lieving that I might conquer them by reso- 
lution. I will make a strong effort against 


48 


MABEL LEE. 


them to-morrow, for I will tell Mr. Ainslie 
that I will sit to him.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

PLAIN SPEAKING. 

“ I WILL certainly tell him to-morrow,” 
had been Mabel’s last words when she bade 
her sister good-night ; and so it was her 
first waking sensation on that morrow, was 
one of the heavy weights with which we 
are all familiar when some disagreeable duty 
is to be performed. She opened her eyes 
with a start, as the first golden sunbeams 
slanted, through a half-closed blind, upon 
her face ; and with the start came the recol- 
lection of this intangible something which 
was disagreeable. The next moment she 
knew what it was; she remembered that 
she had promised to tell Mr. Ainslie that 
she would sit to him, and dismay followed 
close upon remembrance. “How can I ever 
do it? ” she asked herself; and then she 
thought, “ at all events, I must do it.” Yes, 
she must do it. There was no question of 
that, but the certainty was enough to drive 
all further thought of sleep from her. So 
she rose at once, and made her toilet. Then 
she threw open one of the windows and 
leaned out, drinking in the fresh beauty of 
the sparkling June morning, until a faint 
perfume of cigar-smoke, floating up from 
the terrace below, proved that some other 
member of the household had matutinal hab- 
its besides herself. She leaned over a little 
farther, and ascertained that this early riser 
was no other than the person of whom her 
thoughts were just then full — Mr. Ainslie. 
Faithful to her instinct of dislike, she drew 
back as soon as she recognized him. But 
then an impulse came suddenly upon her. 
Why not prove her new resolution, and the 
new strength of mind which she meant to 
practise, by going down to him, and getting 
over with the explanation at once ? Poor 
Mabel ! It was quite easy to ask the ques- 
tion, but very hard to answer it. She stood 
with hor hands locked, pale, trembling, and 
altogether such a pitiful sight that, if Con- 
stance could only have seen her, she would 


never have urged, or even permitted, a sac- 
rifice at such a cost. There was some pow- 
er of self-discipline in the girlish nature, 
however, for, after a time, she took up her 
hat and resolutely tied it on, left the room, 
and, as if afraid her determination would 
fail, ran hastily down-stairs, and out of the 
house. 

Whatever were the subjects of Mr. Ains- 
lie’s morning meditations, he certainly was 
as much astonished as a man could possibly 
be when in turning at the end of the ter- 
race, where he was pacing to and fro, he 
saw Mabel advancing toward him. He 
stopped for a moment in sheer surprise, 
then he took his cigar from his lips, lifted 
his hat, and came forward. 

“ So the morning has tempted you out, 
also. Miss Lee,” he said. “Is it not charm- 
ing ? ” 

“ Yery charming,” Mabel answered ; and 
the feeling of repugnance rushed over her 
so strongly that she could scarcely refrain 
from instantaneous retreat. “ But it Avas 
not the morning that brought me out,” she 
went on, quickly. “ I — I wanted to speak 
to you.” 

“To me!” he repeated, and he could 
not help looking a little surprised. “ I am 
sure I need not say that I am very much 
honored and entirely at your service.” 

“ You are very kind,” she said, and then 
she walked on, until she reached the balus- 
trade. There she stopped and turned, with 
a look of resolution on her face which 
might have amused him at another time. 

“ Mr. Ainslie,” she said, simply, and yet 
with a gueat deal of dignity, “I think it is 
best to be frank about almost every thing. 
This is my excuse for speaking directly to 
yourself on a subject which you have never 
mentioned to me. My godfather told me, 
some time ago, that you had kindly offered - 
to paint my likeness for him, and my sister j 
told me last night that you hesitated to ask ; 
my permission to fulfil this promise, for fear ^ 
of annoying me. Therefore I have come i 
this morning to say that I appreciate your f 
consideration in the matter very highly, but < 
that I am quite willing to gratify my dear ) 
godfather, by sitting to you.” ^ 

The sweet, clear, girlish tones spoke 


PLAIN SPEAKING. 


49 


every word distinctly, and then paused, 
more as if she had said her say, and was 
over with it, than as if waiting for a reply. 
A reply came, however, quietly enough. 

“You are right, Miss Lee; frankness is 
always best ; and I appreciate your candor 
as it deserves. I am glad you have given 
me this reassurance, for I have hesitated 
greatly about fulfilling my promise to Mr. 
Seyton. Perhaps, indeed, you may be sur- 
prised to hear that 1 hesitate yet.” 

She glanced up. 

“Yes, I am surprised to hear it. Un- 
less you begin to think that you pledged 
your good-nature too far.” 

“ So far from that,” he answered, “ I 
was never more anxious to fulfil a promise. 
But I still think that I may be the means of 
inflicting a very disagreeable annoyance 
upon you. Can you set my mind at rest, 
by honestly affirming that such would not 
be the case ? ” 

He looked steadfastly at her as he asked 
the question, and Mabel felt herself color 
deeply, almost painfully, under his gaze. 
Slie had never felt the folly and unreason- 
ableness of her dislike more strongly than 
at the present moment; but neither had 
she ever felt the dislike itself more sensibly. 
How, then, could slie set his mind at rest, 
in the way he desired? Her silence and 
embarrassment told Ainslie that it was im- 
possible. He smiled slightly — a little sadly, 
as it seemed — when he spoke again. 

“I see you cannot do so. Well, pray do 
not let the fact distress you. We can none 
of us control our affections and antipathies, 
you know; the world might be a much bet- 
ter world if we could. Tell me this, and I 
will stop worrying you. Do you think 
there is any hope of my being able to over- 
come your prejudice ? ” 

Mabel looked at him steadfastly. 

‘‘I fear not,” she said, gravely. 

“ But why not? ” persisted he ; and he 
tossed his cigar over the balustrade into the 
river below, as he came nearer to her. 
•‘You must pardon my obstinacy, but I am 
not accustomed to being disliked, and the 
novelty is not to my taste. Indeed, I am a 
good sort of fellow enough ; quite harm- 
less, too, and I am sure you might like, 
4 


or at least tolerate me, if you would only 
try.” 

“I — I have tried,” said Mabel, and she 
looked like a penitent child in her distress 
and confusion. “I — indeed I would will- 
ingly like you — if I could. But — ” 

“ Well, but what? ” 

“ I cannot.” 

Mr. Ainslie smiled slightly. 

“You say you have tried,” he said; 
“ but I really do not think you have — in 
the right way, that is. Now, shall I tell 
you my theory on the subject ? ” 

“Ye — s,” she answered, a little hesitat- 
ingly. 

“ It is simply this : that you have asso- 
ciated me with that cursed — I beg your 
pardon — that wretched mesmerism. Now, 
if you will only forget it — if you would only 
disconnect me from it — ” 

“But I cannot! ” she repeated; and he 
saw her shiver from head to foot, in the 
warm June sunshine. 

“ Pardon me,” he said ; “ there is no such 
thing as ‘ cannot,’ and I heartily wish there 
was no such word. If you would only try 
— if you would only let me try — ” 

He broke off abruptly and paused a mo- 
ment before he resumed : 

“ Miss Lee, I am sure you think me very 
persistent, and perhaps I am harming my 
cause, instead of helping it. But I have 
one more proposal to make. You were 
kind enough to offer me permission to paint 
your likeness ; and yet you are truthful 
enough to tell me that this compliance is 
painful to you. Now, if the matter only 
concerned myself, I should be a brute to ac- 
cept your sacrifice of inclination ; but, as it 
concerns your godfather, and my word to 
him is pledged, I am constrained to com- 
promise as best I can. I will, therefore, 
take you at your word so far. I will ask 
you to give a week’s course of sittings, and 
see if the ordeal proves as terrible as yon 
fancy it would be. At the end of that time 
you can decide whether or not they shall be 
continued. Does this suit you ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, ashamed and pro- 
voked that she could not speak more can- 
didly, and yet wholly unable to do so. “Yes, 
it will suit very well, and — Mr. Ainslie — ” 


50 


MABEL LEE. 


“ Well ? ” lie said, smiling as she stopped, 
and seemed struggling with herself for a 
minute. He was an artist bj nature, and 
he was sure he had never seen any thing 
more lovely than she looked at that mo- 
ment — her lids downcast, her lips quiver- 
ing, and the delicate color of her cheeks 
flushing more deeply every instant. “ If I 
could only paint her so ! ” he thought to 
himself, and, as he thought it, she looked 
up at him with her frank, sweet eyes. 

“I only want to say that I am very 
grateful for your kindness and courtesy,” 
she murmured, hastily. “ I know how dif- 
ferently some people would act, and — and I 
am deeply obliged to you. It makes me 
very much ashamed of myself at my want 
of reason ; but I will try to struggle against 
the prejudice, the folly of which I see so 
clearly. If I do not finally succeed in lik- 
ing you, it certainly will not be your fault, 
nor, I hope, mine either.” 

A sudden impulse, more of self-reproach 
than of any thing else, made her hold out 
her hand as she concluded, and he bent 
down and touched his lips to it. Fortu- 
nately, he did not see the quick shudder 
that ran over her frame, or the look on her 
face as he did so, as he said, earnestly : 

“Hot mine, at least.” 

At breakfast every one was rather si- 
lent, for it was a settled thing that the Lees 
were to return home that morning, and Mr. 
Seyton was very low-spirited over the fact. 
Of his own good-will he would have kept 
them altogether, and thought it quite a hard 
case that such a proceeding was not prac- 
ticable. It did not satisfy this unreason- 
able man that his pretty Mabel was re- 
moved from him only two short miles, and 
that he saw her every day; he wanted her 
with him all the time — in his house, at his 
side, and, as her mother and sister were her 
necessary appendages, he wanted them also. 
Indeed, to secure Mabel, he would gladly 
have taken in a regiment of mothers and 
sisters, and thought that life could ofifer 
him no higher privilege and greater pleas- 
ure than to do so. Fate had not, however, 
granted him this privilege and pleasure, so 
lie looked grave and dissatisfied, as he sat 
at the foot of his pleasant breakfast-table, 


while Mrs. Lee, who presided opposite, re 
fiected this discontent to the full. If Mr. 
Seyton wished her to remain permanently 
in his house, that desire was as nothing to her 
own regret that it was impossible for her to 
do so. It was the sort of position to which 
she was properly born, she thought; for 
Mrs. Lee had always been one of the people 
who fancy themselves entitled by right di- 
vine to the good gifts of Fortune, and resent, 
as an injury of the deepest dye, any adver- 
sity or misfortune. She had been well born 
and well reared, and possessed a not uncom- 
mon love of luxury, which made the stately 
appointments of the House very pleasant to 
her. She liked the grand rooms and lofty 
corridors, the silver plate and dainty china, 
the retinue of servants, to whom she needed 
only to say, “Do this,” and it was done. 
Constance always said that it spoiled her 
mother to go to the House, and that she al- 
ways required several w'eeks to recover the 
effect of a prolonged visit. On the present 
occasion, Constance was in deep disgrace, 
for it was she and her tiresome pupils who 
were the cause of their leaving, when it 
would have been so easy to spend a week 
or two longer on account of Mabel’s health. 

“What would be the good, mamma?” 
Constance said, when this fact was quer- 
ulously brought forward. “ We have to go 
sooner or later, and why not now, as well 
as a week hence? For my part, I like a 
disagreeable thing over.” 

“Ho doubt it is very easy to talk that 
way,” Mrs. Lee petulantly rejoined ; “but 
I don’t see that there is any thing disagree- 
able to you. Of course I have to suffer. 

I always do — and Mabel, somewhat. -As 
for you, however, I have no doubt you will 
be delighted to get back to that horrid Ayre, 
and your horrid teaching.” 

“ It is better to be at work, if work is to 
be done,” Constance replied, and that was 
all that she said, for long experience had 
taught her the utter fruitlessness of attempt- 
ing to argue with her mother. She persist- 
ed in saying she must go, however, and, as 
her going meant going for all of them, Mrs. 
Lee sat up at the breakfast-table that morn- 
ing, and ate her muffins like a martyr tied 
to the stake. “I suffer, of course; but that 


PLAIN SPEAKING. 


51 


is what I always qo,” was written on her 
face. And, whenever she addressed Con- 
stance, it was in the tone of one who mag- 
nanimously overlooks, but cannot quite for- 
get, a deep grievance. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Ainslie had somewhat 
smoothed away the cloud from Mr. Seyton’s 
brow, by telling him that Mabel had con- 
sented to sit for her portrait, and that he 
would be ready to begin it whenever she 
felt sufficiently recovered to undergo the fa- 
tigue. “ Since you gave a preference to oil- 
painting over miniature,” he added, “it 
will be necessary for me to fit up a studio 
here, and in that case Miss Lee will need to 
come to me, instead of my going to her.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Seyton ; “ of course it 
will be necessary. — Mab, my darling, do 
your hear that ? When can you give Mr. 
Ainslie his first sitting ? ” 

“ To - morrow, godpapa, if mamma 
agrees,” answered Mabel, looking at her 
mother. 

“ To-morrow will suit me as well as any 
other day,” said Mrs. Lee, in a tone which 
befitted her martyrVo^e. 

“To-morrow, then, is settled,” said Mr. 
Seyton, who was beaming with pleasure. 
“I shall have one of the rooms opening on 
the terrace fitted fora studio; and I sup- 
pose you scarcely have an easel with you, 
Mr. Ainslie ? ” 

“ I regret to say not,” Mr. Ainslie an- 
swered. 

“ Ah, well, no matter. I have an excel- 
lent carpenter who will make you one in no 
time. Then how about canvas and paints ? ” 

“I obtained a supply of those in Ayre 
the other day.” 

“ Ayre is improving. I did not know 
that its tradespeople dealt in such commod- 
ities. — Mab, I hope you will not disappoint 
us to-morrow. I shall send the boat after 
you at ten o’clock.” 

“Very well, sir,” said Mabel, who did 
not look enchanted at the prospect, but 
drank her coflEbe in sober silence. 

“I hope I may be allowed to take the 
boat, if you have no objection, sir? ” said 
Conway. “I volunteer my services for 
boating duty, as long as the painting con- 
tinues.” 


“I have not the least objection,” said 
Mr. Seyton, “ if Queen Mab has none.” 

Queen Mab blushed and smiled — a blush 
and smile which indicated any thing but 
objection. 

“ I am fond of boating myself, and still 
more fond of Miss Lee’s society,’’ broke in 
Mr. Harding, abruptly, to every one’s sur- 
prise. “Now, it does not seem to me that 
my cousin Philip has a patent monopoly for 
either; therefore, if you please, sir, 'I shall 
claim a right to take the boat for her, some- 
times, at least.” 

“Aright!” returned his cousin, before 
Mr. Seyton could speak. “ My dear fellow, 
there is no such thing as a right in a matter 
like this. Where a lady’s favor is in ques- 
tion, a man has only one possible right — 
that of offering service.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Harding, a little sharp- 
ly, “ I offer mine, then — we have both of- 
fered ours, in fact — and Miss Lee may choose 
between them.” 

“ Miss Lee need not, of necessity, do any 
thing of the kind,” said Mr. Conway, coolly. 
“I spoke first. If there is any right in the 
matter, it is mine.” 

“Tut, tut! ” said Mr. Seyton, while Mr. 
Ainslie gave a slightly-amused laugh. 
“There is, as you said a moment ago, no 
right in question, save Mabel’s right of 
choice. We won’t force that on her, how- 
ever, for she might end by choosing neither 
of you. So I will decide the matter by giv- 
ing you leave to take the boat for her on 
alternate days.” 

“ I must say — ” Mr. Conway began, but 
his uncle cut him short. 

“ We won’t say any more about it, Phil. 
The matter is settled. — And now, Oscar, go 
and tell them to man the twelve-oar boat.” 

This was the signal for separation, for 
the tying on of hats and veils, and finally 
of departure, all four gentlemen’accompany- 
ing the ladies to Ayre. It was quite early, 
and by no means very warm, yet the shade 
of the drooping trees was very pleasant, as 
they shot along past the island which Con- 
way told Mabel always reminded him of the 
isle that Hinda praised so eloquently to her 
lover. He was sitting by her now, and, as 
they skirted the banks, he said suddenly : 


52 


MABETi LEE. 


“ What a charming fete cTiampetre could 
be given here ! ” 

“ Picnics here are very common,” said 
Mabel. “ I have been to them often. — Do 
• you remember the last one, Constance ? ” 

“I remember you were sick after it, 
from the combined effect of thin shoes and 
damp ground, if that is what you mean.” 

“ I don’t mean that. But you know we 
all agreed that dancing on the ground was 
very disagreeable, and in wishing that god- 
papa would build a ballroom for us.” 

“I never heard of it,” said Mr. Seyton. 
“If you wished it, Mab, why did you not 
tell me so? But as for the good people of 
Ayre — well, they may build their own 
ballroom, I think.” 

“It was more they than I who wished 
it, godpapa,” Mabel said, with a laugh ; 
“ though it would be pleasant, undoubtedly ; 
for, although dancing on the greensward is 
very poetical in ideal, it is very tiresome in 
reality.” 

“ Suppose I give your proiuised midsum- 
mer-night’s ball there?” said Mr. Seyton, 
half jestingly. 

“It WM)uld be delightful!” she cried; 
while Philip Conway repeated curiously : 

“ Midsummer-night’s ball. What do you 
mean ? ” 

“ I mean Mabel’s fete-^dijf Mr. Seyton 
answered, with a glance that effectually 
stopped further inquiry. “ Midsummer-day 
is her feast, and so we always celebrate it 
with due honor. — I promised you a ball this 
year, did I not, Mab? ” 

“Undoubtedly you did,” said Mabel, 
promptly ; “ and I shall see that the prom- 
ise is fulfilled. Now, an island-ball would 
be rapturous.” 

He laughed, and yet, despite the laugh, 
his face grew grave, for this midsummer-day 
fete had its own significance. Nobody had 
ever noticed or celebrated Mabel’s birthday 
— the day which, besides being her birthday, 
was the anniversary of her father’s death ; 
and this necessity seemed so sad to Mr. Sey- 
ton, that, wdien she was quite a little child, 
he inaugurated the custom of observing this 
other day with all the ceremonies that usu- 
ally attend what poets are fond of terming 
“the natal day.” Presents were offered. 


good wishes made, holiday festivities insti- 
tuted, and such a gala air given the occa- 
sion, that, as time went on, Mabel positively 
began to count the years of her age from 
this date. She scarcely ever remembered 
that it was not in truth her birthday, and 
nobody cared to remind her of the fact. 
So, now that her eighteenth year was draw- 
ing to its close, she seemed as much as ever 
oblivious of it, and as much as ever deter- 
mined that her fete should make up her 
birthday shortcomings. 

“An island-ball would be rapturous, 
would it?” said Mr. Seyton. “But how 
could I build you a ballroom in such a short 
time ? ” 

“ Oh ! there is plenty of time, godpapa, 
I am sure ; and a fete over there would be 
something quite unique — something differ- 
ent from a commonplace ball up at the 
House.” 

“ Something very uncomfortable, I am 
afraid,” said Mr. Seyton. 

“ Why so ? ” asked Conway. “ It would 
be very easy to construct a pavilion for 
dancing, and then, with the undergroAvth 
cleared away, and the trees hung with 
lamps, not to speak of a few arches and fire- 
works, a scenic effect might be obtained 
which would be very good. — Eh, Ealph ? ” 

“Very,” said Mr. Ainslie. “ I can fancy 
the lights gleaming over the water, and the 
boats darting to and fro. It is a clever idea, 
Phil.” 

“ But a troublesome one,” said Mr. Sey- 
ton. And with that the matter might have 
ended, if he had not looked up at the mo- 
ment and seen the expression on Mabel’s 
face. It wms only the youthful, wistful long- 
ing for a new pleasure ; but it touched the 
heart that had never yet denied her any en- 
joyment which wealth or love could com- 
mand. 

“ Look here, my fine fellow,” said he, 
turning to Conway, with a smile, “ this is, 
indeed, a very clever idea of yours. But 
are you willing to take the trouble of car- 
rying it out? Will you attend to the ar- 
rangements, without bothering me about it, 
and furnish Blake with necessary plans and 
directions ? ” 

Philip Conway looked at Mabel, and he, 


PLAIN SPEAKING. 


53 


too, read aright the longing in her eyes. 
He, too, felt that any exertion to gratify 
that longing would be well made. 

“Yes,” he said, “,I will undertake it 
with pleasure.” 

“Then,” said Mr. Seyton, “I give you 
carte hlanche for its fulfilment, with only 
this understanding, that I am not to be 
troubled. Give Blake your orders, and he 
will carry them out — that is, if Mabel is in 
earnest in preferring that her ball should he 
here.” 

“ Indeed I am in earnest ! ” cried Mabel, 
breathlessly. “ It will be charming — it will 
be delightful. 0 godpapa, how can I thank 
you enough ? ” 

“ Thank Phil, not me,” said Mr. Seyton, 
with a smile ; and, before they finished dis- 
cussing and talking it over, the boat swung 
round at the foot of Mrs. Lee’s garden, 
where there was a landing-place, and a 
flight of steps which led down to the wa- 
ter’s edge. 

On these steps, at the present moment, 
Mr. Nowell was standing, ready to receive 
his aunt and cousins, but with an expres- 
sion the reverse of sunshine, when he saw 
who was handing Mabel from the boat. It 
did not mollify him in the least that Mr. Sey- 
ton and his guests made their adieux after 
the fairer portion of the cargo was fairly 
disembarked, and, promising to see them 
soon again, pursued their way to the town. 
Miss Lee’s residence being in the suburb 
nearest the House. 

“Francis, you are not looking well,” 
Constance said, after the first greetings were 
over ; “ and you don’t seem glad to see us, 
either. What is the matter ? ” 

“Nothing,” answered Mr. Nowell, a 
little shortly. “ And I suspect I am as glad 
to see you, Constance, as you are glad to get 
back again. Mabel, in particular, looks 
overjoyed.” 

Mabel was standing at the head of the 
steps, swinging her parasol in her hand, and 
gazing after the vanishing boat, as her cous- 
in spoke. She heard him, however, and 
turned round with a smile. 

“ Do I look overjoyed ? ” she asked. 
“Well, I’m not exactly that; but I am very 
well pleased, Francis, I assure you. How 


pretty every thing is ! and, though it has 
only been little more than a week since we 
went away, what a time it seems ! ” 

“ A very charming time, no doubt,” said 
Mr. Nowell, regarding her severely. 

“ I thought time seemed short when it 
was charming,” she returned. “ Come, I 
will not be scolded as soon as I return. 
You may be sure of one thing, sir — nobody 
ever was cross at Seyton House ; and, if you 
don’t want to make me wish myself back 
there, you had better smooth your face.” 

“I am not an airy gallant, like Mr. Phil- 
ip Conway, Mabel.” 

“ Mr. Philip Conway is not an airy gal- 
lant, as far as I am aware,” Mabel retorted. 
“He’s a very pleasant gentleman; and if 
you will behave yourself, and look moder- 
ately interested, I will tell you what he is 
going to do for me.” 

“ Going to do for you ! Pray what right 
has he to do any thing for you ? ” 

“ He has the right of being very agree- 
able and obliging,” said Mabel, a little in- 
dignantly. “ He is going to build a pavil- 
ion on the island for my fUe ;' and we are 
to have arches, and fireworks, and dancing, 
and a full band of music, and — every thing 
that is delightful. Just think of it! ” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Nowell, who did think 
of it, to his infinite disgust. “ But is Mr. 
Conway already master of Seyton House, 
that he can play the prince in this style ? ” 

“ No ; of course not. It is godpapa who 
gives me the fete^ but Mr. Conway has prom- 
ised to attend to it, and he has such exqui- 
site taste, that it is sure to be fit for the 
fairies.” 

“ Such exquisite taste, has he ? Any- 
body has exquisite taste who undertakes to 
gratify your whims, I believe. But if my 
aunt allows this nonsense — ” 

“Mamma’s delighted with the idea,” in- 
terrupted Mabel. 

“Then I hope she will also be delighted 
with the colds and sore throats it will en- 
tail.” 

“You may be sure of one thing,” cried 
she, “ we will not force anybody to come to 
it. You may stay in Ayre, and read your 
horrid law-books that very night, if you 
want to.” 


54 


MABEL LEE. 


“The permission is scarcely necessary, 
Mabel.” 

'‘’"Nous 'cerrons^'* she said, nodding her 
head, and then she went away to the house, 
vanishing down the long green walk that 
led direct from the river-side to the back 
piazza, while Mr. Nowell turned to his cous- 
in, who had stood by in amused silence. 

“She is worse spoiled than ever, Con- 
stance,” he said, as if the spoiling was all 
Constance’s fault. “ I am sure I don’t see 
where it is to end.” 

“ It would end easily enough if you were 
kind instead of severe,” Constance said. 
“ Your constant censure does harm instead 
of good, Francis.” 

“ I know that nothing but indulgence 
does good in your eyes,” he returned, as 
they walked on toward the house. 

Constance’s few words had their weight, 
however, for he exerted himself to be more 
agreeable after he came in, and did not even 
say any thing unpleasant when he heard of 
the portrait-painting, which was in itself a 
remarkable fact. 


CHAPTER X. 

FOEESHADOWINGS. 

“Well, Blake,” said Mr. Seyton, “you 
have not told me yet what your decision is 
in the case of Conway m. Harding,” 

Two or three weeks had elapsed when 
the master of Seyton House addressed this 
half-laughing question to his faithful friend 
and steward. They were alone in the li- 
brary, and had been deep in business for 
some time, until Mr. Seyton pushed aside 
impatiently the balance-sheet for which he 
entertained such a disgust, and changed the 
subject in this way. He looked at Blake 
with a great deal of amusement in his eyes, 
and scarcely understood the half-perplexed 
regard which Blake returned. 

“ I take it you mean your nephews, 
sir? ” the latter said, after a pause. 

“To be sure, I mean my nephews,” re- 
[)iied Mr. Seyton, good-humoredly. ’ “Who 
else should I mean? Come, don’t be stu- 
pid — or obstinate, either! Confess your 


prejudices and mistakes, and own up, like a 
good fellow, that you would rather burn the 
old house down, than see Cyril Harding 
master of it.” 

“ I’m no special friend of Mr. Harding’s, 
sir,” Blake answered ; “ but I could stand 
seeing him master as well as I could stand 
seeing anybody after you are gone. If it 
was Mr. Conway, now, you may be sure I’d 
rather put a torch to the old timbers.” 

“So you are as obstinately set against 
him as ever ? ” 

“If you choose to put it in that way, 
sir, yes — I’m as obstinately set against him 
as ever.” 

“You used to be a reasonable man, 
Blake; if you are a reasonable man yet, you 
must have some ground for such a prejudice. 
What is it ? ” 

An awkward question that, for which 
Mr. Blake did not seem to possess any reply. 
He twisted a pen to and fro in his strong, 
brown lingers for some time, before he 
replied. Then it was quite abruptly; 

“I don’t know that I could make you 
understand, sir, so perhaps we had better 
not talk of it. I gave my advice once, and 
you didn’t take it ; that’s all. I have got no 
right to give it over again.” 

“ Not when I ask you ? ” 

“No, sir; not even when you ask me, if 
it will do no good.” 

“ That’s as much as saying you have no 
reason to advance in support of it, then ; for 
you know, if you had a reason, it would do 
good. If I have been deaf to you hereto- 
fore, it was only because you had nothing 
but prejudice to urge. Bring any thing 
else, and see if I do not pay attention to it.” 

“I have nothing to bring, sir,” said 
Blake, very doggedly — “nothing, that is, 
which you don’t know yourself. You know 
what the captain was, and how the captain 
ended ; and you might know, too, that the 
son is following exactly in the father’s steps. 
So, if you choose to set aside these things, I 
have nothing else to bring.” 

“ Stop a moment,” said Mr. Seyton, 
“Tell me what you mean by ‘following ex- 
actly in the father’s steps ? ’ ” 

“What should I mean, sir, only that 
just what the captain was when he came 


FORESHADOWINGS. 


55 


here first, Mr. Pliilip is now. The captain 
could talk of nothing but horses and races 
and billiards, and neither can Mr. Philip ; 
the captain knew every jockey and gambler 
in the country, and so does Mr. Philip ; the 
captain had never any thing hut a sneer for 
any good man or any decent woman, and 
neither has Mr. Philip ; the captain carried 
ofi* a sweet lady, to her own misery and ruin, 
and so is Mr. Philip about to do.” 

“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. 
Seyton, sharply, on whom this climax came 
like a thunder-clap. 

Mr. Blake looked at him in surprise. 

“Surely you know what I mean, sir ; 
although, perhaps, it was not my place to 
mention it,” he said. 

“ Do you mean any thing about my god- 
daughter?” 

“I mean only this, sir: that day after 
day I meet Miss Mabel and Mr. Conway 
walking, or riding, or boating together, and 
I have begun to think that the county must 
be right when it says that your heir will 
also be her husband.” 

“ Does the county say that ? ” 

“It has said it a long while, sir.” 

“ But it is not true. , You know it is not 
true.” 

“How can I know it, sir? Miss Mabel 
is an angel of beauty and goodness — but 
she’s a woman, after all. And as to what 
Mr. Philip Conway is, you’re only to re- 
member what the captain was when he car- 
ried oflE* Miss Adela.” 

“ But it is impossible ! ” cried Mr. Seyton, 
who had grown very pale within the last 
few minutes — “ it’s -impossible, I tell you. 
Mabel would not dream of such a thing — 
and her mother — her sister — pshaw I It is 
absurd.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Mr. Blake, dryly. “ Do 
young ladies usually ask the permission of 
their mothers and sisters, before they fall 
in love? I beg your pardon, sir, if I am 
speaking too freely, but it seems to me you 
might have expected this.” 

“ Expected it ! ” repeated Mr. Seyton, 
with something of a gasp, and then he got 
up and walked disturbedly to and fro. 
“You are wrong, Blake; you’re totally 
wrong,” he said at last. “I am sure of 


that. But, if you should be right, how 
shall I ever forgive myself? ” 

It was on the end of Blake’s tongue to 
say, “I warned you, sir,” but he forbore. 
If what he feared was true, Mr. Seyton’s 
self-reproaches would need no point from 
him. If not — but, alas! how little could 
either of them discern that darker future 
which was to come, and which would make 
even this fear seem in the retrospect a 
blessed hope 1 

“ I believe we have finished with this 
business to-day,” said Mr. Seyton, coming 
abruptly to the table, and putting the ac- 
counts away. “ If you will ride over to- 
morrow, I will try and look at the rest. — 
By-the-way, how does the pavilion come 
on?” 

“ Tolerably only, sir. Mr. Conway gives 
so many orders, and is so contradictory 
about them.” 

“Well, well, it will all come right, I 
dare say,” interrupted Mr. Seyton, absently. 
“You must excuse me if I leave you now.” 

“Yes, sir, certainly. Indeed, I’m just 
going.” 

“ Good-morning, then.” 

“ Good-morning, sir.” 

They shook hands, and Mr. Seyton left 
the room by one door, while Mr. Blake went 
out of another, which opened on a side 
piazza. The bright, warm noonday was 
somewhat dazzling after the subdued gloom 
of the library, and he pulled his hat so low 
over his brow that, as he went down the 
steps, he did -not see Cyril Harding, who 
was ascending them, until they came face 
to face. 

hTow, notwithstanding the warmth with 
which Mr. Blake espoused this gentleman’s 
cause, in his inmost heart he entertained no 
sort of fancy for him. It was a matter of 
choosing between two evils with him, and 
as Cyril Harding was, in his eyes, an in- 
finitely less evil than Philip Conway, he 
did battle manfully in his service. But, for 
all that, his regard for him was scarcely 
more cordial than that of Mr. Seyton. So 
he greeted him rather stilfiy, and was by no 
means pleased that Mr. Harding chose to 
turn and accompany him to the front of the 
house, where his horse was waiting. 


66 


MABEL LEE. 


“ How does the pavilion come on, Mr. 
Blake ? ” inquired this gentleman, repeating 
Mr. Seyton’s question in a patronizing tone, 
which made Mr. Blake feel very savage in 
his inmost heart. “The 21st is very near 
at hand. I suppose you will surely com- 
plete it soon? ” 

“I suppose so too, sir,” said Mr. Blake, 
“ if Mr. Conway will know his own mind. 
It is very hard on the workmen, this hav- 
ing to tear down and put up continually, 
and Mr. Conway changes his plans every 
day or two.” 

“ The last thing I heard of was the diffi- 
culty about Ionic columns,” said Mr. Hard- 
ing. “ What is he after now ? ” 

“ The Lord only knows. Some- hea- 
thenish roof or other, that nobody ever saw 
the like of, as far as I know. I went there 
yesterday, and the carpenters were all at a 
stand-still over it, while Mr. Conway was 
not to he found high or low.” 

“ That’s no uncommon thing,” said Mr. 
Harding, with a grim sort of smile. “ Mr. 
Conway rarely is to be found, excepting 
when Miss Lee is at the House. I hope my 
uncle is pleased at the prospect of the alli- 
ance pending in that direction, Mr. Blake ? ” 

“I am sure I cannot say, sir,” replied 
Mr. Blake, who had no idea of being sub- 
jected to a pumping-process for Mr. Hard- 
ing’s benefit. 

“ I scarcely feel able to congratulate 
Miss Lee on her prospects of happiness,” 
pursued the latter, who was evidently 
smarting from some fancied injury or re- 
pulse. “ My cousin Philip’s character is 
notorious ; and, if my uncle is not aware of 
it, I think — I really think — that it is the 
duty of some friend to enlighten him.” 

“ I wonder that you do not take that 
duty upon yourself,” said Mr. Blake, who 
every moment liked Mr. Harding less. 

“There are motives of delicacy,” said 
Mr. Harding, solemnly. “ Otherwise — but 
I am sure you understand. It is impossible 
for me to do it — quite impossible. Now, 
you, Blake — ” 

“ Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Mr. Blake, 
shortly — “ I have no talent for tale-bear- 
ing, even when I am able to vouch for the 
tales myself. Mr. Conway’s habits do not 


concern me ; — nor, perhaps, Mr. Seyton^ 
either. 

“Why?” asked Mr. Harding, eagerly. 
“ You think my uncle not likely to — to— 
make him his heir?” 

“ As for that, I am unable to hazard an 
opinion,” answered the other, stiffly ; “ but 
I only know this, sir, Mr. Seyton is able to 
look after his own interests, and, if he can- 
not find an heir to suit him, he will, like as 
not, cut the matter short by leaving the 
property to Miss Mabel Lee. Good -morn- 
ing, sir.” 

“ But, good Heavens ! The entail ! He 
dare not — ” began the astonished Harding. 

But Mr. Blake was gone. He had 
mounted Brown Jerry as he uttered the 
last words, and he was now riding away at 
a sharp trot. “A precious pair,” he mut- 
tered between his teeth, for he was in more 
of a fume than he would have liked to ac- 
knowledge — “a precious pair to choose 
between! No wonder the master can’t 
make up his mind, when he has to take a 
canting prig like this, or a gambling adven- 
turer like the other. I’m glad I gave him 
that last shot. He’ll not forget it soon, 
and, if it does nothing else, it’ll make him 
uncomfortable.” 

Meanwhile, Mr. Seyton had gone to the 
room which was fitted up as a studio for 
Ainslie. It was a very pleasant apartment 
connecting with the drawing-room suite, 
and opening, like the library, on the ter- 
race; but lacking sufficient light to make it 
a good painting- room. The artist had obvi- 
ated this as well as he could, by placing his 
easel in the broadest glow of an uncurtained 
window; but, even with this arrangement, 
he found that he could do no work aftei 
mid-day. The light changed then in the 
most exasperating manner; so, necessarily, 
all of Mabel’s sittings were in the morning. 
It was morning now, and she was on duty, 
draped about with a blue scarf of some 
light material, while her mother sat cro- 
cheting in one of the open windows, and 
Conway amused himself by playing critic- 
in-chief. He was standing behind his friend, 
and an animated discussion had for some 
time been going on between them. 

“ I maintain that the spirit of the thing 


FORESHADOWINGS. 


57 


is all wrong,” Conway was saying. “You 
may talk about exactness of feature and 
clearness of tint as much as you please, 
Ralph ; but expression is, after all, the 
main point, and there you have failed en- 
tirely. You may not believe it, for you are 
wonderfully set up in your own opinion, but 
it is a fact, nevertheless.” 

“I don’t know that I am set up in my 
own opinion,” said Ainslie, painting away 
very coolly, “ but you are not infallible, 
Phil, in art, any more than in any thing 
else. I don’t agree with you ; I think I have 
caught Miss Lee’s expression perfectly.” 

“ What! that woe-begone face and mar- 
tyr-like nose? It might serve as a concep- 
tion of Iphigenia, but for her — my dear fel- 
low, you must be blind. Now, if I had been 
in your place, I should have painted her ac- 
cording to one’s idea of Titania — 

“ ‘ With childhood’s starry graces lingering yet, 

I’ the rosy orient of young womanhood.’ ” 

“I paint her as she seems to me,” an- 
swered the other, retreating a step or two 
back from his canvas. “ If ever I saw 
Miss Lee’s face in my life, I see it there,” 
he went on; “and as for the expression — 
you don’t know what you are talking about, 
Phil. That expression is, above all others, 
the one which is most natural to her face.” 

“ I know better,” returned the other, ob- 
stinately. “ I have eyes, and they are as 
good eyes as yours, though I can't put down 
their expression in red and white. — Will you 
come and see which of us is right. Miss Ma- 
bel ? ” 

But Miss Mabel only Smiled and shook 
her head. 

“I should not know,” she said. “No- 
body can judge of her own likeness — and, 
besides, I should get out of position.” 

“ Mrs. Lee, will you come ? ” asked the 
injured artist, turning to his only other 
witness, for Mr. Seyton had not yet ap- 
peared. “ Will you come and say who is 
right? ” 

Mrs. Lee came, rather reluctantly, for 
she knew as much of art as if she had been 
reared among the Kaffres, and looked at the 
picture from a safe distance, with head a 
little on one side. 


“ It is like Mabel,” she said, “ wonder- 
fully like her. I don’t see how you ever 
managed it so well, Mr. Ainslie. The hair 
is hers exactly, and the color in her cheeks 
is as like as life. Then the eyes — ” 

“My dear madam, how about the ex- 
pression ? ” interrupted Ainslie. “ Do you 
think it is too pensive, too sad ? ” 

“It is very sad,” said Mrs. Lee, doubt- 
fully. “ But I have often seen Mabel look 
just that way, especially when she was 
asleep.” 

“ And it is said that the face always as- 
sumes the natural expression in sleep,” said 
Ainslie, looking triumphantly at Conway. 
— “ I hope you are satisfied now, Phil.” 

“Not at all,” returned the other. 
“ Here’s my uncle ; we’ll refer the matter 
to him. You are just in time, sir, to decide 
an important question between Ainslie and 
myself — no less a question than whether 
Miss Mabel is to appear on his canvas as a 
type of all the despairing maidens who ever 
looked unutterable woe since the beginning 
of the world, or whether she is to be her 
own bright self. For my part,” continued 
he, with emphasis, “ I hate woe-begone 
faces, and I don’t know any class of people 
I have less sympathy with than the class of 
Mariannas in their moated granges.” 

“ I am perfectly willing that you should 
judge between us,” said the artist, address- 
ing his host ; and he moved aside, to surren- 
der the best stand-point. 

Mr. Seyton uttered an exclamation when 
he came in front of the painting ; and then 
stood still for some minutes, regarding it 
silently. It was a singularly beautiful con- 
ception, and, apart from all question of like- 
ness, one which proved the artistic power 
and artistic culture of the hand that had 
produced it. Yet it was very simple. Only 
a half-length, and painted without back- 
ground or accessories, or any of the ordi- 
nary surroundings of a portrait. Instead of 
these, the canvas was covered with fleecy 
white clouds, out of which Mabel’s face shone 
like a star — her blue mantle thrown lightlj' 
over her head in a hood-like fashion, fastened 
at the throat by a single golden clasp, and 
falling all around her, so that the waving 
outlines of the figure could only be dimly 


58 


MABEL LEE. 


perceived beneath its folds. The effect was 
exquisite. The golden hair, half waved, 
half curled round the broad, white, child- 
like brow, and then was plainly put back 
behind the ears, while the eyes, “ like wood- 
land violets newly wet,” looked forth with 
that sweet sad regard which all her life long 
had distinguished them. Instead of this ex- 
pression being confined to the eyes, the ar- 
tist had caused it to pervade the whole face, 
until every feature was tinged with the 
same subtle melancholy ; and even her lips, 
in place of wearing their accustomed smile, 
were closed with a grave pathos, and the 
hands lightly clasped together over the 
breast increased the resemblance, which al- 
most any one would have remarked at first 
sight, to the Madonnas of the Italian school 
— to the sweet divine grace of the star- 
crowned Queen of Heaven, as it shines upon 
us from the canvas of those great masters 
who were of purer faith, as well as of 
greater genius, than any who have trod in 
the footsteps which they made immortal. 
It was Mabel Lee, but Mabel Lee ethereal- 
ized into a beauty deeper than the mere 
beauty of flesh and blood ; it was Mabel Lee 
sliming out of her clouds and her azure 
drapery like a vision of some tender virgin 
saint, as we picture it to ourselves, some 
loving, pitiful heart, that is smitten by the 
sin and suffering of earth, and whose sadness 
is for the fettered lives and sordid spirits of 
others, rather than for the self that has 
learned all wisdom, all science, all knowl- 
edge, human and divine, in two words — 
“ Sursum corda^ 

Whether Mr. Seyton saw all of this or 
not, nobody could tell ; but he was silent a 
long time. Then he spoke without looking 
round. 

“It is exquisite, Mr. Ainslie, far more 
beautiful even than I had expected. Did 
you ask me for my opinion ? I have noth- 
ing to offer but admiration.” 

“/ asked for your opinion, sir,” said 
Conway. “ I begged to know if you do not 
agree with me that, however beautiful it 
may be, it is a false conception of Miss 
Mabel’s face.” 

“It looks like a saint or a Madonna,” 
said Mr. Seyton, smiling; “but I cannot 


find fault with that, Phil. I have seen that 
expression on Mabel’s face very often. I 
saw it this morning in church.” 

“ And I saw it the first time I ever saw 
her,” said Ainslie. “I have painted ac- 
cording to my light. If it don’t suit you, 
Phil, you will have to paint one for your- 
self.” 

“I should paint a woman and not a 
saint, then,” returned Conway, impatiently. 
“ There may be too much of a good thing. 
Ralph. Miss Mabel has quite as many 
angelic attributes at present as she has any 
need of.” 

“I work according to my inspiration,” 
repeated Ainslie. Whereupon he went back 
to his canvas, and began touching, with 
light, sweeping strokes, the folds of the blue 
mantle. 

He painted steadily for some time ; and 
they were all quite silent — Mr. Seyton’s ad- 
vent, and the cloud he unconsciously brought 
along with him, having put an end to the 
pleasant flow of talk and laughter which 
had been going on previously to his en- 
trance. For perhaps it was Philip Con- 
way’s invariable presence in the studio, per- 
haps it was the fact that Mr. Ainslie decid- 
edly improved on acquaintance, or perhaps 
it was only the pleasant occupation of 
knowing that her features were coming 
out one by one under the artist’s brush, but 
Mabel had become quite reconciled to the 
sittings ; and, although the portrait had al- 
ready been in progress some time, and was 
yet far from completion, she had never been 
heard to express impatience or wonder 
concerning the delay. 

“I think Ralph dallies over it, because 
he means to go as soon as it is finished,’* 
Philip Conway once exclaimed. And yet 
the explanation was scarcely necessary, foi 
nobody concerned (excepting Mr. Nowell, 
and he could hardly be said to be con- 
cerned) found fault with this procrastina- 
tion — Mr. Seyton least of all. He cordially 
liked his guest, was glad of any excuse to 
detain him, and would have submitted 
uncomplainingly to almost any privation 
which brought Mabel to the house every 
day. 

Mr. Ainslie had painted for about half 


FORESHADOWINGS. 


59 


an hour, and, tired of the dulness which had 
settled over them, Philip Conway had saun- 
tered away, when the former suddenly 
glanced round, and saw that Mabel was 
looking tired. 

“ Don’t let me detain you any longer. 
Miss Lee,” he said, kindly. “ I shall not 
need you again to-day ; and, although your 
patience is perfect, I should not like to tax 
it too far.” 

“You never do, Mr. Ainslie,” answered 
Mabel, rising. “It is my fault, not yours, 
that I have grown a little weary to-day. 
Mamma, I am ready.” 

“But you will wait for luncheon,” said 
Mr. Seyton, throwing aside the paper he 
had taken up. 

“No,” said Mrs. Lee, a little plaintively. 
“ I am sorry I cannot. Did you say you 
were ready, Mabel? We must go, Mr. Sey- 
ton, for the Boyds are to dine with me to- 
day ; and, although I don’t consider them 
company, still — ” 

“Still we must go,” said Mabel, decid- 
edly. And she put on her hat. 

“ I think I shall accompany you home,” 
said Mr. Seyton, rising as he spoke. “ These 
young men have had quite a monopoly of your 
society- lately ; and everybody knows that 
turn about is only fair play. — Tell Phil so, 
if he comes, Mr. Ainslie,” he added, nod- 
ding carelessly to that gentleman. 

“ There is really no necessity, Mr. Sey- 
ton,” began Mrs. Lee; but Mr. Seyton in- 
terrupted her in his courtly way. 

“You won’t deny me the pleasure, I am 
sure, my dear madam. — Mab, you can dis- 
pense with a young gallant for once, can 
you not? Besides, I want to stop at the 
island and see for myself how the prepara- 
tions come on. Are you ready ? ” 

With a bright smile Mabel assented, and 
her godfather was more than pleased to see 
that there was not even a shade of disap- 
pointment on her face. “It was all an idea 
of Blake’s,” he thought. And the relief con- 
sequent upon feeling this was so great that 
he attended the two ladies down to the boat 
in even more than his usual spirits. 

The reverse was strikingly the case with 
Philip Conway, however, when he entered 
the studio half an hour later, and found no- 


body but Ainslie, who was still hard at 
work. 

“ Where are they all ? Where’s Miss 
Lee ? ” he asked, quickly. “ Surely they 
have not gone home without me? ” 

“That is exactly what they have done,” 
said his friend, coolly. “You ought to ha\e 
stayed, mon am\ if you wanted to look aftei 
your interests.” 

“ But how was I to fancy they would 
treat me this way ? And you — you might 
have let me know, Ralph.” 

“There was nothing to let you know,” 
the other answered, with a shrug. “ Yotre 
oncle interfered, and carried them off, much 
against the fair Mabel’s wishes, I imagine. 
He bade me tell you that turn about is fair 
play, if that is any consolation to you.” 

“My uncle,” repeated Philip Conway. 
“The deuce! What, does that mean, I 
wonder? Do you know I fancied that he 
looked rather — rather queer^ when he came 
in a while ago ? ” 

“He looked rather out of sorts; but 
what of that ? ” 

“ Only that he may have been hearing 
some pleasant story or other about my 
many virtues and good deeds; and that, jper 
consequence^ he thinks it a measure of pre- 
caution to guard his pet lamb from such a 
wolf.” 

“A guilty conscience — you know the 
rest,” said Mr. Ainslie, giving a dash of 
paint on Mabel’s golden locks. “Don’t bo 
absurd, Phil. Who would he have heard 
any thing from? ” 

“ My precious cousin for one.” 

“ Bah ! he would not dare to speak, for 
his own sake.” 

“That obstinate old Blake for another.” 

“ And how would he know any thing ? ” 

“He is keen enough, and prejudiced 
enough, to ferret out every ugly story that 
ever was afloat against me, and how many 
there are, and have been, I don’t need to 
tell you.” 

“No,” said Ainslie, dryly. “But I can 
tell you that you make a great mistake in 
thinking your uncle would listen to any gos 
sip of the sort. He is a gentleman of the 
old school, and so thoroughly imbued with 
the noblesse-oiblige theory that to do any 


60 


MABEL LEE. 


thing underhand would be an impossibility 
to him. Besides, are you so much set upon 
this inheritance that you should fly otf at a 
tangent because he happens to look a little 
grave? That’s rather a change from your 
old philosophy.” 

“ Yes,” said Conway, absently. He threw 
himself back in the chair where Mabel had 
been sitting, and there was silence in the 
room for several minutes, for Ainslie painted 
steadily on and waited for the other to speak, 
which the other did not do for some time. 

“The devil’s in it,” he said at last, ab- 
ruptly. “You’d scarcely think it, Kalph, 
but the devil certainly must be in it. You 
are right about my old philosophy, and it 
was a very genuine philosophy too. I 
scarcely cared a cent about the Seyton in- 
heritance during all these years, or, indeed, 
when I came here. But now — I wonder if 
it can be that fellow, Harding, who has in- 
fected me with his own overwhelming de- 
sire, or if it is simply the wish to win the 
race against him ? ” 

Mr. Ainslie looked at him with a sort of 
dry, sarcastic smile. 

“ So that’s all you know about it ? ” he 
said. “My good fellow, the secret of the 
matter is neither the Harding rivalry nor 
your own newly-developed mercenary spirit ; 
but simply and solely — this.” 

He pointed his brush at Mabel Lee’s 
face. 

“Perhaps you are right,” answered the 
other, nowise discomposed or taken aback. 
“The master of Seyton House might afford 
to indulge himself in the luxury of a wife, 
pretty, charming, and penniless. But, for a 
poor devil like me, it would be unqualified 
madness, you know.” 

“So you are conducting your love-afi*air 
on the prospects of heirship ? ” 

“ I’m not conducting a love-affair at all ; 
I’m not such a fool. You might as well 
talk to a starving man of eating turtle and 
drinking tokay. I am simply living in the 
hour.” 

“It is to be hoped that Miss Lee is doing 
the same.” 

At these words a dark cloud came over 
Conway’s face. 

“Thai’s the misgiving I have myself,” 


he said. “ Sometimes — just now, for in- 
stance — I feel as if I were acting like a 
scoundrel. But what can I do ? If I go 
away, I leave this d — d fellow, Harding, in 
possession of the field, and so throw away 
my only chance of fortune ; while, as long 
as I stay — ” 

“ The pretty fooling is bound to go on,” 
said his friend philosophically. “Yes, I see 
that. But look here, Phil, does it never 
strike you that perhaps your best chance of 
the fortune would be to secure the fair Ma- 
bel at once? Her godfather could hardly 
steel his heart against the future husband, 
or (if you are bent on a bold coup) the pres- 
ent husband of his pet.” 

“ I said a moment ago that I felt like a 
scoundrel,” answered Conway, shortly — 
“but I have no mind to be one, Ralph. 
Now, I should call that scoundrelism of the 
deepest dye. I don’t pretend to indifference 
on the subject of the heirship ; I do want 
it ; and I don’t pretend to love Mabel Lee 
like a paladin, or like any thing else but an 
ordinary man ; but I love her well enough not 
to use her as a stepping-stone to fortune.” 

“ Ah, I see ; you’ve turned Quixote by 
way of variety.” 

“ Devil a bit of it, as you know perfectly 
well. But a man is not necsssarily a scoun- 
drel because he is an adventurer. I leave 
the first to my distinguished cousin.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“Nothing, except that I doubt if he 
would consider means very much where 
Seyton House was at stake.” 

“You had better look out, then.” 

“ I had better not .pay him any such 
compliment. Let him do his best, or — his 
worst. If there is any thing that I can resent 
openly, you may be sure that I will do so ; 
but if not — you would scarcely advise me 
to play the spy.” 

“The matter stands thus, then,” said 
Mr. Ainslie, throwing a cloth over his easel, 
preparatory to leaving it, and dropping the 
subject of Mr. Harding very abruptly, “ If 
you are lucky enough to be chosen by your 
uncle as bis heir, you will offer yourself to 
Miss Lee ; if not — ” 

“I shall go back to the old life, and 
leave her to my cousin Cyril,” answered 


IN A GONDOLA.” 


Cl 


the other, rising. “ ‘ To him that hath shall 
he given,’ you know. It is not often I 
quote a text ; but constant Harding associa- 
tion must tell, I suppose. Come away now, 
and let us row over to the island. They 
send me word the very deuce is to pay over 
there.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

“in a gondola.” 

The very deuce may have been to pay 
at the island ; but at least the question of 
payment did not trouble Mr. Conway long. 
That very afternoon his 'skiff swung round 
to its mooring at the foot of Mrs. Lee’s gar- 
den ; and, five minutes later, he stood at the 
door of a pretty rose and clematis arbor, 
within which a small table and some chairs 
were placed, and where Constance and Mabel 
generally sat after the mid-day heat abated. 

They were sitting there now, and both 
of them looked up with a smile of welcome 
as he made his appearance, for it had come 
to pass, without any one exactly knowing 
how, that he filled quite an intimate posi- 
tion in the Lee household. Why, it would 
be hard to say, excepting that he, and the 
like of him, generally obtain more than 
their due portion of woman’s favor and sym- 
pathy, for both of which some plainer and 
more honest fellow goes begging. It will 
be remembered, however, that Mabel had 
been his advocate before she ever saw him, 
and in this she did little more than echo the 
family opinion, for Mrs. Lee had once been 
intimate with Mrs. Conway, when that lady 
was Miss Seyton, and she did not forget this 
any more than she forgot the charming 
manners and distinguished appearance of 
that unfortunate gentleman wdiom Mr. 
Blake styled “ the captain,” and never 
mentioned without a grim sort of disap- 
proval. Like many of her sex, Mrs. Lee 
^ was decidedly liberal to the failings of other 
women’s husbands, and could not conceive 
^ that the trifling matter of being a spend- 
thrift and adventurer, and next thing to 
c a swindler, could possibly overbalance the 
L handsomest face and most perfect manner 


she had ever seen; so her tone concerning 
Captain Conway was invariably one of min- 
gled pity — as for a hero unjustly maligned 
— and exalted admiration. “The most fas- 
cinating person in the world,” she would 
say. “ O my dears, if you had only seen 
him 1 It is true, you see Mr. Conway ; but 
I assure you he is only a faint reflection of 
his father. Very charming, I grant you, 
and very much of an improvement on the 
young men of the day. But not to be com- 
pared, oh, not at all to be compared to the 
captain.” “I hope he is an improvement 
on the captain, as well as on the young men 
of the day, in some respects,” Constance 
would answer, gravely, at which Mrs. Lee 
always gave a little cry of expostulation. 
“For shame, my dear! You have been 
hearing some of these horrid stories about 
him. I assure you, and I know all about it, 
that there was not a word of truth in them. 
No one could have known Captain Conway, 
and believed them, Constance.” “Yes, 
mamma,” Constance would answer absent- 
ly ; for she was wondering the while if her 
own partiality for Philip the Second rested 
as entirely on the foundation of his mere 
personal fascinations, as did that of her 
mother for Philip the First. “I hope I like 
him for himself — I hope I am not mistaken 
in liking him ; I really believe ho has good 
qualities, under all his recklessness and care- 
lessness,” she thought eai-nestly, more ear- 
nestly than she would have liked to ac- 
knowledge, as she saw Mabel’s eloquent 
eyes and flushing cheeks ; for Mabel rarely 
spoke in these discussions, save by her eyes 
and cheeks; yet nobody ever seemed to 
doubt that she too was a firm Conway par- 
tisan. 

“Ladies fair,” said the much-canvassed 
gentleman, as he paused before them, framed 
in the door of the arbor, and looking like a 
young cavalier, with the flickering sunlight 
falling in patches on his black curls and 
graceful figure — “ who is ready for a row ? 
My boat is on the shore, and the river is 
smooth as glass. Miss Lee, I am sure Miss 
Mabel will come ; can I not for once tempt 
you also ? ” 

Constance looked up from her sewing— 
she was always busy — with a smile. 


62 


MABEL LEE. 


“You are very kind, Mr. Conway, but I 
am afraid my answer must be the invariable 
no. I would like to go very much, but — ” 

“ But what ? ” asked Mabel, as she 
paused. “ Really, dear, I see no earthly 
reason why you should not go this evening. 
That work can very well wait, and there are 
no cakes to make for tea, nor any thing 
else, that I know of.” 

“Pray, Miss Lee, think again,” said 
Conway; and it was the highest possible 
compliment to Constance’s sweetness and 
charms, that he was perfectly sincere in the 
request. “ I want to take you both over to 
the island, and ask your advice about the 
pavilion, which threatens to prove a failure. 
I am afraid my first essay as an architect is 
by no means a success. Ainslie laughs at 
it, and says nothing fit to be seen will ever 
come of it ; but I think he may be mistaken, 
and I want your advice.” 

“You want us to agree with you, that 

is, ” said Constance, smiling again. “ Well, 
I will come, if you think me worth waiting 
for a little while. I must see Nancy first.” 

“We think you worth waiting for any 
time at all,” he answered, as he moved aside 
to let her pass. 

“ I won’t be long,” she said, as she van- 
ished from sight ; but, if she had only known 

it, there was no question of the length or 
shortness of time with the two she had left 
behind her. Hours were scarcely counted 
in the garden of Eden ; and once, at least, 
in life, we all of us wander in that blessed 
place. Yet to the profane ears of outsiders 
their conversation might have seemed very 
commonplace, after all, being only this : 

“I see you have been reading,” said 
Conway, advancing into the arbor, and tak- 
ing Constance’s vacant chair. “What is 
it ? Ah, my Browning, is it not ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Mabel, with a blush 
and a smile, that always went together 
when she spoke to him. “ It is your Brown- 
ing, though I can scarcely say that I have 
• been reading it. The fact is, Mr. Conway, 
I — I’m afraid I’m very stupid ; but I don’t 
understand it.” 

“ You are not necessarily stupid on that 
account, I assure yon,” said Conway, with a 
laugh. .“ A great many wise people fail to 


comprehend Mr. Browning. He is a new 
poet, with a new style, which I confess I do 
not like, though Ainslie raves over it. Some 
of the beauties don’t lie too deep for com- 
prehension, though, and it was these I rec- 
ommended to you.” 

“Yes, I know, and I have enjoyed them 
very much. You see it is the Dramatic 
Lyrics I have here. I tried ‘ Sordello ’ this 
morning, but — ” 

“But you came to grief shortly? No 
wonder. I pity you sincerely if you even 
tried it. I wish you could hear Ainslie read 
some of these,” he added, as he took up the 
volume. “ His elocution is perfect ; and I 
cannot imagine a more difficult test than 
this wonderfully involuted metre. You 
would scarcely believe it, perhaps, but he 
absolutely brings out the sense sometimes.” 

“Does he? Then I should like to hear 
him. But you, Mr. Conway — I am sure you 
also read well.” 

“ Why do you suppose so ? ” 

She gave a little laugh. 

“ I can scarcely tell, excepting that your 
voice is very musical. Let me hear whether 
I am right or wrong. Read something.” 

“Read what? ” 

“ Whatever the page is open on.” 

He smiled. 

“ To hear is to obey,” he said. And 
then he began those quick, ringing verses : 

“ You know we French stormed Eatisbon ; 

A mile or two away, 

On a little mound Napoleon 
Stood on our storming day.” 

He read well, certainly ; with very per- 
fect taste and just emphasis ; but Mabel be- 
gan to feel a little disappointed, and fancy 
she had, after all, mistaken the capability of 
expression in the voice, the depths of passion 
and energy which she had expected to find 
there, when he came to the last verse : ^ 

“ The chiefs eye flashed ; but presently 1 

Softened itself, as sheathes i 

A fllm the mother-eagle’s eye 
When her bruised eaglet breathes. 

‘ You’re wounded ! ’ ‘ Nay,’ his soldier’s pride, 
Touched to the quick, he said : 

‘I’m killed, sire I ’ And his chief beside, 

Smiling the boy fell dead.” 

Then, with a sharp thrill that went 
through and through her, and with the liot 


IN A GONDOLA.” 


63 


tears which rushed to her eyes, she felt 
that she had not been wrong; for never 
was the spirit of a poet better caught or 
better rendered than Philip Conway had 
caught and rendered this. The emperor’s 
tone of warm yet careless sympathy, and 
the proud, calm answer of the boy, who a 
moment before had spoken with such gay 
daring, the boy at whom 

“ You look twice ere you saw his breast 
Was all but shot in two.” 

But, by this time, and before she could 
express approbation in words, Constance, 
who had concluded her interview with Nan- 
cy, came back to them. 

“ If we are going to the island, we had 
better start,” she said. “ It is quite late.” 

They set out at once. It did not take 
them long to reach their destination, for 
Conway used the oars as well as a profes- 
sional boatman, and pulled against the cur- 
rent with such hearty good-will, that his 
keel soon grated on the island sand. A ne- 
gro who was standing by made fast the 
boat to a small upright stake, and then Con- 
way sprang out. 

“I suppose the men are at work yet,” 
he said to the idler. “ Are you not one of 
them ? What are you about here ? ” 

“ No, sir. I’m not one of them,” an- 
swered the boy, a little sullenly. “ I waits 
on Mr. Blake, sir, and I rowed him over.” 

“What ! is Mr. Blake here? ” 

“Yes, sir. You’ll find him where the 
work’s going on.” 

“ I haven’t the least desire to find him,” 
muttered Conway between his teeth, as he 
turned to assist the two ladies ashore. 

“You see we’ve been clearing already,” 
he said, while they walked up a gentle as- 
cent toward the pavilion. “ These arcaded 
will be very beautiful, I think, when they 
are well lighted up.” 

“They are very beautiful now,” said 
Constance, glancing down the paths which 
opened amojig the undergrowth to the right 
and left. “ What exquisite views ! — Look, 
Mabel, at that one.” 

“Ah, how pretty!” said Mabel; and 
she stood still to admire the vista that 
opened before her — a vista lined with green. 


and giving a panoramic view of the blue 
water, the wooded shore, and the distant 
hills. 

“ But come this way,” said her escort. 
“ Now, here — I mean this to be the scenic 
effect, jpar excellence^ of the evening. Im- 
agine that unsightly mass of lumber yonder 
transformed into a pavilion all ablaze with 
light ; imagine every tree bordering this 
avenue hung with lamps — archways, span- 
ning it at intervals ; then tell me what you 
think of it.” 

“ I think it will be like fairy-land 1 ” 
cried Mabel, clasping her hands ; for he had 
drawn her into a long, straight avenue, 
which led directly from end to end of the 
island, and in the middle of which the un- 
sightly mass of lumber, that was to be trans- 
formed into a pavilion, stood. At least he 
assured her that it stood th'ere, and that 
the effect would be the same if it were ap- 
proached on either side. But, from tlieir 
stand-point, she could scarcely believe it 
did not end the vista. “ It would be like 
fairy-land,” she repeated. “And, 0 Mr. 
Conway, how could you slander your pa- 
vilion so? I think it is beautiful. — Don’t 
you, Constance? ” 

“ I think it looks very pretty from here,’’ 
said Constance; “but a mud-cabin would 
do that, I expect. Mr. Conway, are we not 
to see it any nearer? ” 

“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Conway, with 
a laugh. “ You are to examine it as closely, 
and give your opinion of it as frankly, as you 
please. — This way. Miss Mabel. Take care 
— those trifling fellows have left a great 
deal of brushwood lying about. You had 
better take my arm.” 

Mabel took the arm — she would have 
been apt to take a scorpion if he had offered 
it to her — and before long they made their 
appearance on the open space around the 
pavilion, where the usual carpentering 
sounds of sawing, planing, and hammering, 
were going on, and where Mr. Blake stood, 
in the midst of the debris^ looking very 
grim. He touched his hat when he saw the 
ladies; but even Mabel’s bright smile could 
not tempt him to relax his face. Indeed, he 
did not look at her at all, but directed his 
attention straight to Philip Conway. 


64 


MABEL LEE. 


“ I hear you’ve been giving fresh orders, 
sir,” he said, “and I find the men consider- 
ably bothered about them. It would save 
trouble and time, sir, if you would speak to 
me in the first place, for I might be able to 
tell you beforehand what can be done and 
what cannot.” 

“I only gave some directions about al- 
tering the roof, Mr. Blake,” answered Con- 
way, carelessly. “I considered the men 
quite capable of doing that ; and really, par- 
don me, I did not know that you were in- 
terested in the matter.” 

“I’m not interested any further than my 
business and my duty to Mr. Seyton require 
me to be, sir,” returned Mr. Blake, with in- 
creased stitfness of voice and manner. “I 
overlook the matter at his request, sir ; and, 
if I didn’t do it, I don’t think you or anybody 
else would dance here on MissMabel’s/<?^^.” 

“I know 'it has given you a deuced deal 
of trouble, and I am very sorry for it,” said 
the other, apologetically. “ But, really, if 
the men will be stupid, and make mis- 
takes — ” 

“ The men don’t make mistakes, sir. 
Begging your pardon, it’s you who change 
your mind so fast that you can’t remember 
what it was last time.” 

“ Well, if 7 will be stupid and make mis- 
takes, then, they have to be rectified, you 
know. Novv, that roof — ” 

“ Is a disgrace to a Christian building. 

I grant you that, sir, with all my heart.” 

“ I am afraid it would disgrace a heathen 
one much more deeply. But at all events, 
it must come off.” 

“It can’t come off, sir; that is, if you 
want the thing done by the 21st.” 

“ Can’t — the mischief! ” said Conway, 
beginning to lose patience, and glad that 
Mabel and Constance had moved away to 
observe the building from another point of 
view. “There’s no such word as ‘can’t,’ 
my good friend. It must be done.” 

“ That’s all very fine, sir ; but, when peo- 
ple say ‘ must ’ in that sort of style, they 
ought to be able to provide ways and means. 
Mow, I think it would puzzle you to do ei- 
ther.” 

“ In the devil’s name, where is the diffi- 
culty? What are the men after now ? ” 


“ Hard at work with the weather- board- 
ing and flooring, sir. Besides, there’s the 
piazzas to be finished, and every one of the 
posts to be put in.” 

“Oblige me by calling them columns, 
Mr. Blake. But you don’t mean to tell me 
that it is going to take the men until the 
21st to do nothing but this ? ” 

Mr. Blake looked at him fixedly. “If 
there’s as many obstacles thrown in their 
way as have been, sir, I shall only be sur- 
prised if they get through in that time,” he 
answered. 

“ Confound them, and the pavilion too, 
then! ” said Mr.'Conway, and he took him- 
self off in a very bad humor. 

He found plenty of sympathy ready for 
him, however, and plenty of indignation, too. 

“It is shameful of Mr. Blake,” said 
Mabel. “I never thought he would be so 
mean — and about my ball, too.” 

“That is certainly an added enormity,” 
said Constance, with a laugh. — “ Mr. Con- 
way, I am very sorry for you. The pavilion 
would be so pretty, if only the faults of the 
roof could be rectified.” 

“It would 'be so easy, too,” said the ag- 
grieved gentleman. “ I assure you I never 
meant it to slope in that outrageous fashion, 
and, instead of being pretty, it will be ridic- 
ulous, if it be not altered. Positively, it 
would not take these fellows three days to 
do it, and yet that obstinate old — ” 

Constance held up a warning hand. 

“ Hush ! You must not call Mr. Blake 
any thing uncomplimentary. He means 
well, I am sure ; he always does. Shall I 
go and try my powers of persuasion with 
him ? Perhaps I might bring him to terms.” 

“ I should be inestimably obliged if you 
can. But I have not much hope.” 

“Neither have I,” said Constance. But, 
nevertheless, she went toward the place , 
where Mr. Blake still stood, with determina- 
tion in every line of his face. What she ] 
said nobody heard, but she came back after | 
a time with a very radiant smile. j 

“ What will you give me for good ] 
news?” she cried, as Conway rose to meet 
her. “I don’t positively say that I have 
any, mind you ; but what will you give me ' 
if I have?” ' 


“IN A GONDOLA.” 


65 


“ x\ny tiling at my command,” answered 
he. “ AYe have been sitting here condoling 
with each other on the prospects of the 
pavilion, in the most lugubrious fashion im- 
aginable, and I assure you that, if you bring 
good news, you may name your own re- 
ward, besides meriting our most sincere and 
lasting gratitude.” 

“ Tell us, Constance ; what is it ? ” asked 
Mabel, full of concern and anxiety. “ Please 
don’t keep us waiting.” 

“Well, then, Mr. Blake has finally con- 
sented to- the proposed alteration of the 
roof, on condition that it is the last.” 

“I knew it could be done,” said Con- 
way, coolly. “I don’t feel very grateful, 
either, for such an ungracious favor. But 
you, Miss Lee, I can hardly say how much 
I am obliged to you.” 

“ Show it, then, by going and thanking 
Mr. Blake, with some cordiality,” she said. 
“ He assured me that it will take very hard 
work to get it finished ; and pray describe 
the alteration to him exactly as you wish it 
done. You owe him that for all his 
trouble.” 

“No' doubt you are right,” he said; 
“you always are, for that matter.” 

Then he went to Mr. Blake, who received 
his acknowledgments civilly enough. The 
two sisters, meanwhile, strolled away tow- 
ard the boat, and there sat down to wait 
until he came. It was a beautiful spot, for 
the verdure of the island rose like a green 
wall behind them ; the water rippled softly 
past at their feet, the fair prospect of the 
shore, with its wooded slopes and green 
meadow-land lay before them, while Seyton 
House rose to the left among its terraces 
and gardens, with the blazing Western sky 
behind it, and one faint silver star gleaming 
just above the roof. 

“ The sun has been down some time,” 
said Constance, after a while. “ I wish Mr. 
Conway would come. We are two good 
miles from home.” 

“The June twilight is quite long,” said 
Mabel, “and — but here he is, now.” 

She turned as she spoke, and there he 
was, indeed, breaking with quick steps 
through the brushwood to their side. 

“ The matter is all settled,” he said, gay- 
5 


ly; “and, please your majesty, you shall 
certainly hold your court under a decent 
roof on midsummer night. Miss Lee, let me 
assist you into the boat. Is it toward home 
we are to go? ” 

“Home, undoubtedly,” said Constan<.e. 
“ Where else should it be ? ” 

“I thought Seyton House might tempt 
you.” 

She shook her head. 

“No ; take us home. Mamma isanxious 
now, I expect. I did not tell her w^e were 
going on the river.” 

“Mamma will know very well where we 
are,” said Mabel, coolly. “ Put the oar 
down, Mr. Conway, and let us float back 
with the current.” 

Mr. Convvay was always ready to obey 
any suggestion of hers, especially when, as 
in the present case, it prolonged a very 
pleasant time; so he quietly took his drip- 
ping oar out of the water, and laid it in the 
bottom of the boat. Then he sat himself 
down somewhat at the feet of the two sis- 
ters, and they were all quite silent for 9 
time. 

The hour was certainly an exquisite one, 
and the charm of it entered deeply into the 
hearts of two of them at least. It was such an 
evening as only June ever gives us — so gold- 
en and serene in its royal wealth of beauty. 
The western sky still burned with the 
glow which in this month never quite fades 
from it all the night long. A crescent moon 
was shining where the crimson and golden 
tints melted into the misty sapphire of the 
upper skies, and more than one star had by 
this time come forth into sight. The river 
looked deep and dark along the shadowed 
banks, but where they glided the surface 
still glittered with sunset reflections, even 
though all distant objects were now draped 
in the soft summer gloaming. 

“Mr. Conway,” said Mabel, at last, “this 
is the time, of all others, for music or poe- 
try. We have not got the first, but we can 
have the last. Eepeat something to us — 
something appropriate — and let Constance 
judge of your elocution.” 

He looked up at her with a quick light 
in his eyes. Her allusion to Constance had 
passed unheard. All his good resolutions 


66 


MABEL LEE. 


suddenly became as nothing. They two 
were alone in the world at that moment, 
and would have been all the same if a hun- 
dred people, instead of one, had been pres- 
ent. 

“ Listen, then,” he said, and he began 
that most beautiful of all Browning's minor 
poems — the matchless “In a Gondola.” 
Neither of the sisters had ever heard it be- 
fore, as few of us ever chance to hear any 
thing — heard it interpreted with all the pas- 
sion and tenderness that can fill a human 
heart, for he rendered it with all the expres- 
sion that told one at least of them how en- 
tirely the spirit of the poem had entered 
into the man, and the man into the poem, 
until they two seemed but one — until it was 
not the ill-fated Venetian lover, but Philip 
Conway’s self, who spoke, in the' fiow of 
perfect verse, his love and hope. They sat 
silently listening, while the dusk deepened 
round them, while the boat swept steadily 
on with the broad, majestic current, and, 
after a time, the lights of Ayre gleamed into 
sight, like distant stars, just as the end 
came, and Conway’s voice, vibrating with 
marvellous tenderness and triumphant scorn, 
with proud daring and prouder resignation, 
spoke the closing words : 

“ ‘ It was ordained to be so, Sweet— and best 
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, and on thy breast. 

Still kiss me ! Care not for the cowards ! Care 
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 
My blood will hurt I The Three I do not scorn 
To death, because they never lived: but I 
Have hved indeed, and so — (yet one more kiss; — can 
die ! ’ ” 

After his voice sank on the last cadence, 
there was profound stillness. They could 
not see each other’s face, and nobody spoke 
until he guided the boat ashore and touched 
land at the foot of Mrs. Lee’s garden. 


CHAPTEK XIT. 

ON THE WING. 

So the days went by, lengthening into 
weeks, until the 2l8t of June was near 
at hand. The pavilion had been finished 
in good time, and the preparations for the 
ball were inaugurated in due state ; but all 


of a sudden Conway seemed to lose both 
spirit and interest in the matter. He still 
worked as zealously as ever, superintended 
the decoration of the island, helped Mabel 
to fill out her list of invitations, and made 
himself useful and obliging in a good many 
different ways. But the animation, the 
personal zest, as it were, seemed to have 
deserted him ; and one day he electrified 
the two Lee sisters by saying that he 
thought it doubtful whether be could re- 
main for the ball, or whether midsummer 
night would not find him distant by many 
miles from Seyton and Ayre. The conster- 
nation which ensued was very great, and 
they asked at once why he had arrived at 
such a resolution. He was reticent, and by 
no means satisfactory for some time ; but 
at last he said frankly that he saw no good 
in staying any longer. 

“You see,” he went on, looking not at 
Mabel, but at Constance, “ there are several 
reasons why I think I ought to go. For one 
thing, my mother is quite alone in Paris ; 
and for another — well, for another, I think 
the limit of any reasonable visit has by this 
time expired.” 

“But Mr. Seyton,” cried Constance, 
eagerly. “Has he said nothing ? "Will he 
allow you to go without — without declaring 
his intentions concerning you ? ” 

The young man threw back his head a 
little haughtily, in a way peculiar to him. 
Somehow, of late, any mention of the heir- 
ship had seemed to annoy him. 

“ My uncle only invited me to pay him 
a visit,” he said, with a very unusual amount 
of dignity. “ Of course we both knew what 
that meant; but he has never directly al- 
luded to the question of inheritance, and I 
don’t think he ever will. I don’t think, 
either, that I have the shadow of a chance. 
Of course, there will be no certainty — can 
be no certainty — for some time ; but I fancy 
Cyril has won the race by several lengths.” 

“ I think you are mistaken,” Constance 
began, but he interrupted her quickly. 

“I have the best possible reason for be- 
ing sure that I am not mistaken ; and, after 
all, it may be best so. Cyril will enjoy the 
life amazingly, while I should probably 
never do more than barely endure it. 


ON THE WING. 


67 


‘Better fifty years of Europe, 

Than a cycle of Cathay.’ 

For Cathay read Seyton. I am philosophi- 
cal at least. — Arn I not, Miss Mabel ? ” 

Mabel looked up at this appeal, but it 
was with very troubled eyes, and a mouth 
slightly quivering, despite the faint smile 
she forced. 

“ I wish you were less philosophical,” 
she said. “ I wish very much you would 
remain at Cathay, at least until after the 
ball. It will not seem like the ball if you 
go away.” 

“You will have Mr. Harding in my 
place.” 

“Do you think Mr. Harding can fill your 
place ? ” 

“ Why not? ” asked he, a little bitterly. 
“ The heir of Seyton House is the heir of 
Seyton House, you know, whatever his 
other name may be.” 

“ Don’t mind him, Mabel, he is becom- 
ing cynical by way of variety,” Constance 
laughed. But Mabel did mind him. She 
gave one glance of reproach, then turned 
without a word and left the room. 

Stricken by remorse, Conway followed 
to make his peace, and in ratification there- 
of was forced to promise that he would 
certainly defer his departure until after the 
ball ; but even Mabel saw that his intention 
was firm to go then, and that persuasion 
would have been useless, if she had had a 
mind to try it. 

“We will leave together,” he said to 
Ainslie that same day. “I will go with 
you down to Charleston, and, taking passage 
thence to New York, I can time my move- 
ments exactly, so as to leave in the Arago, 
which sails for Havre on the 10th.” 

“You are determined to • go, then?” 
Ainslie asked, looking at him with some sur- 
prise. “ If I were you, Phil, I would think 
twice about it. Remember you are leaving 
the field entirely in the hands of your rival.” 

“What difference does that make? ” re- 
turned the other, shortly. “My uncle is 
not such a weak fool as to be influenced by 
the nearest person about him. He has seen 
enough of both of us to make up his mind 
in the matter ; and staying here will neither 
help nor hinder his resolution. Besides, it 


is an undignified position, and one I don’t 
fancy.” 

They were smoking together on the ter- 
race, watching the sun go down over the 
distant mountains, and Ainslie blew a per- 
fect cloud before he spoke again ; then he 
knocked the ashes from his cigar, and said, 
significantly : 

“ How about Miss Lee? ” 

Simple as the question was, it brought a 
cloud over Conway’s face such as had dark- 
ened it once before at sound of the same 
name. 

“ Nothing about her,” he answered, even 
more shortly than a moment back. 

“ Come, come, Phil, don’t take that tone 
to me,” said the other, good-humoredly. 
“ What is the good of being churlish over 
the loss of your pretty plaything ? Haven’t 
you made up your mind yet that ‘lightly 
won and lightly lost ’ is to be your motto, 
now as ever ? ” 

“ I have made up my mind that I wish 
Seyton and all its belongings were in the 
depths of the Ayre,” answered Conway, 
with an unmistakable emphasis of sincerity. 
“ I wonder why I was such a fool as to come 
here? I might have known that harm of 
some sort would be the upshot. I never 
was fortunate in my life. But you know 
this would be suicidal, Ralph.” 

“This — what?” asked the other, still 
smiling. “ I never expected to see you take 
any thing so au tragique. What is the 
matter? A pleasant flirtation, a good-by, 
a heartache or two on each side, perhaps, 
and then — forgetfulness. Is that a matter 
to be regretted? ” 

“Not from your stand-point, perhaps,” 
returned Conway, a little ungratefully. “ I 
see as plainly as you do how it must end,” 
he went on, tossing his cigar far out into 
the river ; “ but the consolation of that end- 
ing is what I don't see, just at present. 
However, I don’t mean to put a climax on 
my folly, if that is any palliation of the folly 
already achieved. In my present position, 
sans profession, sans fortune, sans expecta- 
tions, sansQYevj thing, but debt and trouble, 
I could not think of Venus herself, unless 
she brought a handsome dot with her. So 
I have made up my mind to go.” 


68 


MABEL LEE. 


“Perhaps it is best,” said his friend, 
musingly. “ If your chances here are good, 
absence won’t hurt them ; and for the rest 
— che sa7'd sard^ you know.” 

So it was settled, and that night Conway 
announced his intended departure to his un- 
cle, Mr. Seyton received the news very 
quietly, and made little or no demur, being, 
indeed, exceedingly glad of the intelligence. 
Of late he had been growing more and 
more uneasy concerning Mabel’s evident 
predilection for his black sheep of a neph- 
ew ; and had wavered toward the Harding 
side more on that account than on any other 
whatever. He felt sure that, if the pecuni- 
ary obstacle were removed, the course of 
true love would be very apt to run smooth 
to a matrimonial conclusion, let friends and 
common-sense say what they chose. And, 
dearly as he loved Mabel, he would almost 
rather have seen her in her coffin than seen 
her Philip Conway’s wife. Blake himself 
had no deeper distrust of the Conway blood, 
no more profound horror of the Conway na- 
ture, than had Mr. Seyton, when the mat- 
ter was brought home to him. It was won- 
derful how he veered round to the Harding 
interest during these days of anxiety, and 
how secure he felt in the pragmatic stupid- 
ity and formal piety of the man for whom 
he had hitherto entertained such a disgust. 

How all that was changed ; and for some 
time the heirship of Seyton House hung on 
more of a thread than it had ever done be- 
fore, or was ever destined to do again. But 
he kept his own counsel, and, save by 
shrewd surmises, nobody knew this, though 
everybody saw plainly enough his deep and 
manifest anxiety about Mabel. It was the 
perception of this anxiety, and of his uncle’s 
growing coolness toward him, that deter- 
mined Conway on departure. 

• “ I was a fool to come,” he thought, 

again and again. “I might have known 
that there was no such thing as luck for 
me.” Yet, if he had only known it, he was 
serving his interests better by going than if 
he had remained until doomsday — for, by 
this means, he gave Mr. Seyton the only clew 
out of his difficulty, the only means of com- 
promising with two conflicting desires. He 
wanted to make Conway his heir, and he 


I also wanted to put him forever out of Ma- 
bel’s path of life. He had not seen any pos- 
sibility of reconciling these two things, un- 
til the young man himself came forward 
with the mode. 

“I am going back to Europe,” he said; 
and eagerly, almost joyfully, Mr. Seyton 
bade him go. He was young, he could af- 
ford to wait, thought the elder man; he 
could afford to remain in ignorance of the 
good fortune awaiting him — it would be all 
the more pleasant when it came, and, mean- 
while, Mabel would marry somebody else, 
and be safely out of the way of danger. 

“It will be all right when he comes 
back,” thought this simple-hearted gentle- 
man, as he stood that night by his chamber- 
window, and looked out to a spot where, 
beyond the luxuriant bloom of the garden, 
white shafts and garlanded crosses gleamed 
in the silver moonlight. It was the burial- 
ground of the family — the ground where 
every Seyton had been laid, since the first 
of the name was placed to rest under the 
soil of the New World; and it spoke well 
for this man’s brave, steadfast faith, and 
quiet, stainless life, that the thought that ho 
would be sleeping there when the time of 
w'hich he spoke came round, cost him not a 
sigh. On the contrary, he smiled, and say- 
ing, “It will be all right then,” turned 
away full of content. 

On the 20th, while everybody else was 
full of the approaching fete^ Ainslie shut 
himself up in his studio, and gave the fin- 
ishing touches to the portrait, which for 
some time had been needing only these fin- 
ishing touches to complete it. Then, on 
the morning of midsummer-day, he took Mr. 
Seyton in and showed it to him. If it had 
been beautiful before in its crude, half-fin- 
ished state, it was something much more 
than beautiful now. It was a picture such 
as we seldom see from the hand of an unin- 
spired artist, from one who has none of the 
grand impulses of faith, or the tender graces 
of devotion stirring in his heart, but who 
works out his conception merely according 
to the earth, earthy. There was about it 
an exquisite spirituality, and an almost di- 
vine loveliness, which could only be likened 
to “the lamp of naphtha in the alabaster 


ON THE WING. 


G9 


vase, glowing with fragrant odors, hut shin- 
ing only through the purest vessels.” The 
execution was perfect — so perfect that the 
eye, taking in only result, hardly noted the 
finish of detail which gave the result. If a 
fault was perceptible, it lay in the two evi- 
dent signs of long and patient labor, and the 
“ bits ” here and there, showing that they 
had been toiled over stroke upon stroke, 
until the artist himself was satisfied. The 
fleecy clouds seemed melting into the deep 
sapphire sky, which was rather to be felt 
than seen behind them ; and the folds of the 
blue drapery floated out, half filled with air, 
more like the drapery in that exquisite 
‘‘Terza di Notte” of Raphael, than any 
thing else. No one who has ever seen that 
picture will forget the buoyancy of the fig- 
ure, or the matchless grace with which the 
folds of the mantle envelop it, as it floats 
in mid air ; and, almost unconsciously, Ains- 
lie had embodied much of the same spirit, 
save tliat here there was more repose. The 
clasped hands, the head slightly bent, the 
whole pose of the picture, was full of quiet 
and sadness, and, now that it was finished, 
the indescribable pathos which pervaded it 
was even more perceptible than before. 

Despite this, however, Mr. Seyton seemed 
fully satisfied, and was eager in admiration 
and praise. 

“ It is exquisite ! ” he said. “ Simply as 
a picture, it would be an invaluable posses- 
sion, Mr. Ainslie; but, as a likeness of Ma- 
bel, it is worth more than its weight in dia- 
monds to me ! The only trouble now is, that 
I cannot possibly thank you enough for it.” 

“You have thanked me too much al- 
ready, my dear sir,” said Ainslie. “I am 
only very happy if my dabbling in colors has 
enabled me to requite in some sort your 
kindness. Once more you must let me 
thank you for it, and repeat how pleasant 
my visit has been, for I regret to say that it 
draws to a close.” 

“You are really going, then? In that 
case I am half sorry the portrait is finished. 
Bui what is your haste? I have often 
Jieard you say your time is your own, and, 
if you persist in leaving, 1 shall think that 
Seyton has begun to weary you.” 

“ You could not do me greater injustice,” 


said Ainslie. “Seyton would not weary me 
if I remained a dozen years ; but I received 
a letter from Charleston, some days ago, 
which I ought to have answered in person, 
and at once. I could not prevail upon my- 
self to leave before the ball, however, so re- 
mained in defiance of business. But I must 
go to-morrow, or next day at farthest.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Seyton, with a sigh, 
“ if you must, you must. But the precept, 
which bids one speed the parting guest, has 
always been the hardest of all to me, espe- 
cially if that guest was a friend as valued 
and intimate as you must allow me to con- 
sider yourself.” 

“I hope I am sufficiently grateful for the 
compliment, my dear sir.” 

“ You will go? ” 

“ I regret to say that I have no option 
but to do so.” 

“ I shall miss you sadly — you and Philip 
both,” said Mr. Seyton, but he was too well 
bred to press the matter further, and he 
consoled himself for his coming desolation 
by calling in two or three of the servants, 
and having the picture hung in the library, 
just opposite his favorite seat. There was 
considerable difficulty about the light and 
the position, and all that sort of thing ; but 
at last it was adjusted to his satisfaction, 
and he sat down opposite the mute shadow 
of his darling. “It looks like the other Ma- 
bel, as I saw her last,” he said to himself; 
and after that he stayed there quiet and un- 
moving for several hours. 

Meanwhile, there was great and unusual 
commotion among all the young people of 
Ayre. They were not young people who 
were at all seasoned to dissipation — a 
few picnics, and a quiet dance or two, com- 
prising, as a general thing, their social ex- 
citement the year round. So the prospect 
of a real and undoubted ball, on quite a 
grand and rather a novel scale, had elated 
them in high degree. It made no difference 
whatever that the weather was scorching, 
and that old people, and people who, not 
being de notre classe^ had not been invited, 
declared that dancing would prove simply 
unendurable, for they found their forebod- 
ings laughed to scorn. It would have taken 
a more than African degree of heat to damp 


70 


MABEL LEE. 


the spirit of Terpsichore which was ever 
bubbling up in the breasts of these gay, 
fresh country maidens, who had not yet 
learned to despise every thing save the Ger- 
man, and vote even that only tolerable 
with an entertaining partner. 

“A partner!” cried Miss Mina Eston, 
when a languid, city-spoiled young lady 
suggested this new view of things. “ I like 
a good partner, of course ; but, my dear 
child, I would dance with a stick, to be 
dancing.” 

And this was not only the theory, but 
also the practice, of all the demoiselles of 
Ayre. So, as “ sticks ” abounded there, as 
well as elsewhere, wall-flowers were conse- 
quently next thing to unknown. This line 
of liberal sentiment gave animation and zest 
to the small assemblies with which Ayre 
occasionally amused itself, and made them 
such pleasant scenes that the veriest bigot 
who ever declaimed against “ the sin of 
shufiling the feet ” might have been con- 
verted, if he had watched for one half-hour 
those bright faces and graceful forms, as 
they moved through the quadrilles, or tried 
a quiet polka or two. But, as it chanced, 
such bigots were rare in Ayre; and even 
the two Misses Phifer, who represented as 
much of the element as was afloat, had 
pledged the attendance of their Koman 
noses at Mr. Seyton’s fete. 

Great were the preparations of this day, 
therefore, and poor Constance (who was a 
very popular referee in matters of costume) 
really thought that it would never come to 
an end, and night fairly close over them. 

It closed at last, and the important busi- 
ness of dressing began. It was a business 
which cleared Mrs. Lee’s house very speedily 
of all save its regular occupants, and left 
only a permanent thunder-cloud in the per- 
son of Mr. Mowell. He was what Mabel 
called “ boiling with,ill-humor,” on account 
of the ball, and had utterly refused to go to 
it. But still he haunted the house all day, 
and made himself particularly disagreeable. 
After tea, Mabel went up-stairs to array her- 
self; but, before doing so, gave him his orders. 

“ You are not to leave until I come down 
and show myself to you,” she said; and, 
chafed and vexed though he was, he could 


not find it in his heart to disobey. Poor 
fellow! he was not the kind of man whose 
love-troubles meet with much sympathy 
from the outside world — rarely even with 
much encouragement from their object — yet 
they were none the less sincere for that. 
They made him moody and bitter, they en- 
raged him against himself and his own fully, 
they even rendered him harsh and disai^ree- 
able to the woman he would have died to 
serve ; but they were, perhaps, the most 
real thing about a nature which was intense 
in its reality. Once for all, it may be as 
well to say here that Francis Nowell loved 
Mabel Lee as it is the fortune of few women 
on this earth of ours to be loved ; and that 
he could not remember a single day, since 
her childhood, when he had not loved her 
in this absorbing fashion. She embodied 
every thing that was tender and soft in his 
nature and conception, for, beyond that, he 
was a man whose sentiments toward the 
world were, at best, those of simple indiffer- 
ence. Mother or sisters he had none. Con- 
stance he liked, in a certain cold way of his 
own ; and for his aunt he entertained a pro- 
found contempt. But Mabel had twined 
herself into the inmost recess of his heart, 
and remained there, without change or 
shadow of turning, to his dying day. 

Left alone now, he walked restlessly about 
the little sitting-room, where tokens of her 
met his eye on every side, and tokens, too, 
of this new life which was estranging her 
from him. There lay some fragments of her 
dress — the dress over which Constance had 
toiled so lovingly and patiently; there a rib- 
bon that had dropped from her hair ; there 
the gloves she had trimmed with lace, and 
forgotten to take up-stairs ; and there, close 
beside them, for she had read it in the inter- 
vals of sewing, a volume of Brovming, open 
on the last page of “In a Gondola.” He 
did not know, of course, the association 
connected with this; but still he eyed it 
disapprovingly, and, after glancing at the 
closing verses, had just laid it down with a 
muttered “Stuff! ” when there came a rus- 
tle of drapery, and a light footstep on the 
stairs. The next moment she flashed in 
upon him through the open door. 

And how beautiful she was! Long 


ON THE WING. 


11 


years afterward, in the sternness and graj- 
ness of his age, his heart warmed into life 
whenever he recalled her as she stood be- 
fore him that night in the full flush of her 
youth and beauty. She was dressed in 
white gauze, of the most airy and weh-like 
texture, embroidered with a silver oak-leaf- 
and-acorn device, the full, sweeping skirt 
falling in a train behind, but short enough 
in front to uncover the dainty, slippered 
feet. Her rich golden hair was arranged 
in loose curls that hung quite to her waist 
behind, while a chaplet of pearls, which 
had been Mr. Seyton’s gift that day, bound 
them back from the brow in front, but they 
fell over the bare shoulders and arms like 
rippling masses of sunlight ; and the effect 
was so dazzling, that she seemed to bring a 
glory into the room with her. NTo detail 
of the costume was careless or lacking ; and, 
as she stood looking at her cousin, full of 
laughing pride and conscious loveliness, he 
could scarcely, for once, forbear the utter- 
ance of his admiration. He did forbear, 
though it was hard for him to do so. He 
swallowed down the words of praise that 
rose to his lips, and spoke after a while in 
quite his usual fashion : 

“ I suppose you think you are looking 
very charming, Mabel? I wonder if you 
will turn anybody else’s head to-night half 
as much as your own is turned ? ” 

“So you don’t think I am looking charm- 
ing? ” 

“ I think I have seen you look quite as 
well often before ; and, indeed, to my mind, 
a great deal better.” 

“ In a calico, or something of that sort, 
perhaps ? ” 

“Yes; in a calico, or something of that 
sort, if it was neatly made, and modestly 
put on.” 

Mabel flushed suddenly. It was right 
hard to meet such a reception, and be 
greeted by such censure, when she had come 
down full of her happiness and pleasure ; 
and, for one instant, a sharp retort — if any 
retort of hers could possibly have been 
sharp — rose to her lips. But the gentleness 
of her nature prevailed now, as ever. She 
thought better of it before it was spoken ; 
and, besides, she was too happy to be cross 


even with Francis. So she only looked up 
at him with a smile — that came back to him 
afterward, many a time, and pierced more 
sharply than a sword-stroke — saying : 

“ I see you mean to put me out of hu- 
mor ; but that is even beyond your power 
to-night. I would not quarrel with the 
most provoking person in the world — which 
you are not, yet a while. I came down to 
be admired ; and, if you will not admire me, 
I suppose I must be resigned. But I have 
a favor to ask of you. Please think better 
of your resolution, and come to my ball.” 

She spoke very pleadingly ; hut the mere 
mention of the ball was as wormwood to 
him, and he answered, sharply enough : 

“ I never think better of my resolutions, 
Mabel. It is impossible. I shall be very 
busy to-night, and, besides, I should not be 
likely to contribute to your enjoyment.” 

“That depends entirely upon yourself. 
You could contribute to it very much, if 
you would.” 

“Pretty speeches are not necessary be- 
tween us, Mabel.” 

“I am not making pretty speeches,” she 
said, a little indignantly. “ What is the 
matter with you to-night? You are even 
more dis — cross than usual.” 

“Then I would be even less likely to 
prove a welcome addition to your ball com- 
pany.” 

“ I only wish I could persuade you to 
come in character, as Diogenes, or Timon 
of Athens. Everybody would be sure to 
say, ‘ How appropriate ! ’ ” 

“That would be very kind of everybody ; 
but I shall not aflTord them the gratifica- 
tion.” 

“ You positively will not come? ” 

“ I have already answered that question, 
Mabel.” 

“Well,” said Mabel, who felt herself 
strangely rebuffed, “ as you please, of course. 
But I am sure I would do as much to give 
you pleasure. If it were jour fete, now — 
but, then, there’s no good in talking. You 
say you will not come? ” 

She looked at him as she uttered the last 
words, and nobody, save himself, knew how 
nearly he had yielded. She seemed so 
pained, and was so lovely, that his heart 


72 


MABEL LEE. 


suddenly smote him. It was, as she said, 
her fHe^ and, when every one else was at 
her feet, he alone thwarted and vexed her. 
In another moment he might have agreed to 
go, had not a sudden interruption come — 
steps were heard advancing along the gar- 
den-path, voices and laughter sounded quite 
near. Mabel flushed up with warm delight, 
and Nowell drew hack into his shell, cold 
and hard as ever, when the glass door lead- 
ing into the garden opened, and a brilliant 
group entered. It was Mr. Seyton and his 
three guests, in full evening costume, and 
they made a very imposing appearance, 
even though the dress suited Mr. Harding 
about as well as it would have suited an un- 
dertaker. He looked singularly out of 
place, and singularly out of humor, too, so 
that his face was a very good foil to the 
brightness of the three other faces, as they 
came in together. 

Perhaps, if the truth had been known, 
their moods were not much more tuned to 
enjoyment than his ; but they were all 
three, in their different ways, men of the 
world, and had at command the lip-deep 
smiles that Society (which cares not a jot 
whether the heart be gay or breaking) de- 
mands from all her votaries. Mr. Harding 
had inflnitely less of the conventional power 
of self-control about him; and then his 
grievance was the most real of all. The 
latter should be taken into consideration ; 
for, let people talk as they will of sentimen- 
tal grievances being as bad or worse than 
real ones, they have, at least, the merit of 
being more easily concealed and put aside. 
A man may smile when the woman he loves 
has just told him that he is nothing to her 
— indeed, it sometimes affords him a great 
deal of gloomy satisfaction to do so — but he 
must possess rare facial muscles if he can . 
smile when bankruptcy is hanging over his 
head, or when Poverty grins at him from an 
empty larder. 

Mr. Harding’s trouble was not quite so 
real as this, but still it was not a light one ; 
for on that day he had heard, from his un- 
cle’s own lips, that all his hopes of the Sey- 
ton inheritance were at an end. 

“ I tell you this, because I think it is 
right you should know it,” Mr. Seyton had 


said, after his resolution w'as declared a§ 
kindly and gently as possible. “ It would 
be wrong to let you cherish expectation 
which my death would only disappoint. T 
have not told Philip yet, and do not inten l 
to tell him. But you are different. I felt 
it a duty to let you know. When I die, you 
will find that 1 have remembered you in the 
little which is mine to give ; but Philip is 
the natural heir. Adela is older than your 
mother, and it seems his right.” 

“ I only hope you may never regret it, 
sir,” was all that Mr. Harding replied, for 
he had some dignity in his own fashion; 
but it would be hard to say how bitterly re- 
sentful he felt at heart. 

This bitterness and resentment were 
still very evident in his face and manner — 
for brooding over his wrongs had only 
strengthened his conviction of them — and 
made his presence any thing but one of sun- 
shine when he entered Mrs. Lee’s sitting- 
room, and saw the young queen of the even- 
ing, in her white gauze dress and shim- 
mering pearls. It is not too much to say 
that he fairly hated her, as she stood before 
him all flushed and radiant, looking more 
like a shining peri^ than the sad Madonna 
Ainslie had painted. In his heart, he firm- 
ly believed that she was the cause of hia 
uncle’s decision in favor of Conway. He 
thought, as a more keen-sighted person 
might have been pardoned for thinking, 
that it was simply on account of the ten- 
dresse existing between those two, that Mr. 
Seyton had bestowed the inheritance (as 
Ayre had said, from the first, he meant to 
bestow it) on the choice of his goddaugh- 
ter. 

“ He has played his cards better than I 
have,” thought Mr. Harding, bitterly, as he 
watched the light on Mabel’s face, while 
she stood talking to his cousin, a little apart 
from the rest — for Mrs. Lee and Constance 
had appeared by this time — and felt all the 
humiliation as w^ell as the sting of defeat. 
“He has played his cards better than I 
have, for it is very plain that all my uncle’s 
talk about the eldest and the right, and the 
natural heir, means simply this ! It is all 
because of her baby face and baby liking 
that he is chosen. He saw it from the first. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


13 


and now — it is enough to make a man curse 
them both ! ” 

To this mildly Christian soliloquy, Mr. 
Nowell’s face was an admirable accompa- 
niment, and their moods appeared so much 
like two instruments “ sweetly played in 
tune,” that it almost seemed as if they 
might have found comfort in mutual com- 
panionship. Instead of that, they scarcely 
noticed each other, but stood separately 
aloof, and from their dilferent positions re- 
garded the interchange of compliments and 
greetings going on, very much as Diogenes 
may have regarded all the glittering bravery 
and royal pomp of Alexander, when he cast 
his kingly shadow down upon the cynic’s tub. 

It was grovving late, however, as the 
hands of the clock over the mantel testified ; 
and Mr. Seyton declared at last that they 
must start. 

“ It would be bad if our guests began to 
arrive, and there was no one to receive 
them,” he said. So then a universal shawl- 
ing took place, and they all set forth. Ma- 
bel was the last to leave the room ; and, as 
she was going out on Philip Conway’s arm, 
she turned back a moment and held out her 
hand to Mr. Nowell. 

“Good-night, Francis,” she said, softly, 
for, although it was his own fault, she felt 
sorry that he had no part in their pleasure, 
but was left behind in this way ; “ I wish 
you would tbink better of it. Won’t you 
come — even now ? ” 

“Impossible,” he answered, coldly. “I 
have told you before that I am busy. Good- 
night. I hope you will enjoy yourself.” 

“ I would enjoy myself more if you were 
with us,” she said, gazing at him wistfully. 
But, seeing how hard and immovable he 
looked, she uttered another soft good-night, 
and went away. 

He watched the last gleam of her dress 
down the garden-path to where the boat lay; 
and then he turned moodily from the house. 
Ilis heart was heavy enough as he went 
down the street toward his dreary office, 
but it would have been heavier still* if he 
could have even faintly imagined how and 
where he was next to see that face, whose 
eyes had just looked at him so wistfully and 
vainly. 


I 

CHAPTER XIII. 
midstjmmee-night’s dream. 

Three or four hours later, the ball was 
in full progress, and the island gleamed 
from end to end with lamps of many colors, 
shining out everywhere among the deep foli- 
age, and making an effect which is so beau- 
tiful that, common as it is, we never weary 
of it. The reflections of the illuminations 
were thrown far out on the river, and the 
skiflfs that were constantly darting to and 
fro threw up showers of water that glittered 
like gold and diamonds. The banks were 
quite fringed with these boats, and crowds 
of servants loitered about admiring the fairy- 
like scene, and enjoying the gala-air of the 
occasion as much as, or perhaps a little more 
than, their betters. From the Potomac to 
the Rio Grande there was no picture in 
those days without these ebony accessories ; 
and a ball would scarcely have seemed a 
ball if the eager black faces had not peered 
in at windows and doors, fidl of admii*ation 
and delight. Sometimes this admiration 
and delight shamed the apathy of those who 
were more directly engaged in the festivi- 
ties ; but it was not so on this occasion, for 
there never was a greater success in a social 
way than Mabel’s midsummer-night’s ball. 

Out of the many invitatiops issued, there 
had hardly been one “ regret ” returned ; 
and numbers of people were there, who had 
driven from the other end of the county, a 
distance of some twenty or thirty miles, to 
participate in the sight-seeing. 

Up and down the alleys and arcades, 
that had cost Philip Conway so much trou- 
ble, wandered the brightly-dressed groups, 
and there was not a nook on the island 
that had not echoed their gay voices and 
merry laughter. 

Necessarily Mirth erected his chief throne 
in the pavilion, but the crowd was very 
excessive there, and, by way of relief, the 
cool woodland paths were very pleasant. 
So, also, was the circular piazza, from which 
an excellent view could be obtained of the 
interior, with its brilliant and shifting 
throng. Almost any ballroom is a pretty 


74 


MABEL LEE. 


sight; for the massing of the figures, the 
constant picturesque combinations which 
they form, the unconscious harmony with 
the rise and swell of music, that tones down 
almost any movements to grace, the brightly- 
lit faces, the “dancers dancing in tune,” 
and the cadenced rhythm of “ flute, violin, 
and bassoon,” all conspire to make up the 
delight of the eye in no ordinary degree. 
But this ballroom seemed, to its partial 
lookers-on, wellnigh the prettiest they had 
ever seen. 

Through the length and breadth of the 
State, Ayre was renowned for its pretty 
women, and never had they better sustained 
their reputation than on this night. Look- 
ing through one of the broad windows on 
the dancing-room, it was a perfect “ rose- 
bud garden of girls” which charmed the 
glance, as they circled in and out of the 
time-honored and time-worn quadrille fig- 
ures, or threw themselves body and soul 
into the old-fashioned waltz, than which 
nothing more graceful, nothing more de- 
lightful, has ever been, or ever will be, 
invented. The girl of the period had not 
yet arrived, bringing along with her the 
dance of the period ; and, when the band 
struck up one of the sweet old Strauss 
waltzes, eyes brightened and lips smiled as 
gayly as they brighten and smile now over 
the last galop from “ La Grande Duchesse,” 
or “La Belle Helene.” 

“Don’t let me keep you, Frank,” said 
Constance, turning to a young man who 
stood with her near one of the windows, 
where they could feel the cool night air, 
and enjoy the animated scene at the same 
time. “ I know you want to be dancing. 
Pray go.” / 

The person thus addressed — a young col- 
legian, who quite unconsciously kept time 
to the music with his foot, and whose hand- 
some face, “ beneath its garniture of curly 
gold,” proved his near relationship to the sec- 
ond best beauty in the room, i. e.. Miss Nina 
Eston, of musical fame — looked round with 
a smile. 

“ I’ll go, certainly. Miss Constance,” he 
answered, “if you will go too, but not 
otherwise. Shall we take a turn? It looks 
pleasant, I am sure.” 


“It looks extremely pleasant,” Con- 
stance replied ; “ and that is why I bid you 
go and find a partner. I believe I don’t 
care to take a turn — waltzing is much too 
warm work for to-night. But I see that you 
can hardly keep still, so take yourself ofl^* at 
once.” 

“And leave you alone?” asked he, 
plainly anxious to obey, and yet fearful of 
transgressing les Menseances too far, in so 
doing. 

“ What does it matter about leaving me 
alone?” said she, laughing. “But here is 
Mr. Seyton, so now you need not hesitate. 
Do go. I want to see what new steps you 
have learned at the university.” 

“ We don’t learn steps at the univer- 
sity,” said he, shrugging his shoulders. 
“And, besides — I don’t see any available 
partner.” 

“ Yonder is Maggie Bradford.” 

“ I don’t care to ask Miss Maggie.” 

“ Why not? She is a very good waltz- 
er.” 

“ Yes,” answered he, a little hesitating- 
ly; and then after a moment his grievance 
came out. “ I was engaged to her for the 
last waltz, and she snubbed me in the cool- 
est manner possible, to give it to that — ” he 
paused, glanced at Mr. Seyton, and concluded 
his sentence in a manner plainly different 
from what he had intended — “that Mr. 
Conway.” 

Constance laughed. 

“Well, yonder is Mabel,” she said. 
“Go and make her snub Mr. Conway for 
your benefit. That will be only fair, I am 
sure.” 

“ It would be only fair, but how am I to 
do it?” 

“ As if you need to ask me ! Claim the 
right of friendship, of course; and be as 
plaintive as possible. Tell her you have 
not danced with her to-night, and that you 
must have one waltz at least for auld ac- 
quaintance’ sake. Add, also, that you may 
be in Asia, Africa, or Oceanica, on her next 
/e^e-day, and I hardly think she will refuse 
you.” 

The young man laughed, and went off 
right willingly. Constance and Mr. Seyton 
w^atched him as he crossed the room, dex- 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


15 


terously avoiding collision with several 
waltzing couples, and gained an alcove 
where Mabel stood surrounded by several 
gentlemen, of whom Conway was one. As 
Eston drew near, she laid her hand on the 
arm of the latter, and was on the point of 
turning away, but the young collegian 
stopped her, and an animated discussion 
ensued. 

“ I have no idea that Frank will suc- 
ceed,” said Mr. Seyton, regarding the scene 
with very manifest anxiety ; but Constance 
smiled, and answered that she thought he 
would. The result proved her opinion 
right. After a moment they saw Conway 
fall back with only tolerable grace, and the 
next instant Mabel’s white dress floated by 
them, and Frank Eston nodded triumphant- 
ly over his shoulder, as he bore his prize 
round and round in that swift, delicious 
whirl which sets the blood dancing and the 
whole frame tingling like nothing else in 
the world. 

Undoubtedly, there were many fair wom- 
en present that night — women with all the 
beauty of face and form and all the name- 
less fascination of voice and manner which 
have made their land famous — but fairest far 
among them all was the young belle of the 
evening. It seemed as if an accession of 
loveliness had come to Mabel like an in- 
spiration that night, and astonished even 
the people who had known and admired 
her all her life. It was not the mere ad- 
vantage of costume, or the beauty, but it 
was something deeper, richer, rarer than 
any of these, which shed over her a glory 
next to divine. The girl was dead, the 
woman had waked to life, and the change 
startled even her own sister. 

She looks as if she were enchanted,” 
Constance had said, almost unconsciously, 
yet in her unconsciousness she struck home 
to the truth. Enchanted! That was the 
solution. That was the key to all this new 
affluence of beauty, this dazzling transfigura- 
tion of the familiar face till it seemed unfa- 
miliar. The dewy lustre of the eyes, the 
smile that rested like sunshine on the sweet 
rose lips, the whole expression was changed 
and glorified into something that the fair, 
serene features had never known before — 


something, too, that had a certain pathos of 
its own, and touched into sadness more than 
one among those who were old enough to 
have seen many such bright dawns darken be- 
fore noonday into clouds and tempest. Ma- 
bel herself was conscious that it was an un- 
natural excitement which filled her veins like 
a subtle elixir, but she yielded willingly to 
the spell, and shut her eyes to every thing 
save the passing hour. 

“I mean to think of nothing but to- 
night,” she said to herself, and for once this 
resolution — a fesolution very hard to carry 
out — was faithfully fulfilled. She thought of 
nothing but the night — not of the morrow 
with its farewell, and still less of the long, 
blank morrows that were to come after — • 
and, thus feeling, possessed once at least 
that hoard of fairy gold which is far more 
bright and far more precious than all the 
currency of earth. Ah I who has not been 
thralled by its magical glitter, its wonderful 
promise of happiness and beauty ; and who 
also has not waked to find it moss and 
leaves ? 

Now, it happened that when Mabel had 
yielded to young Eston’s auld acquaintance 
plea, she had done so rather reluctantly, 
saying, “If you insist, Frank, I suppose I 
must give you one turn, but the waltz is 
Mr. Conway’s, and he has a right to the 
rest — that is, if he chooses to wait for it.” 

She looked at Conway interrogatively, 
as she spoke, and he fell back, as before 
mentioned, with only tolerable grace. 

“ Let it be only one turn, then,” he an- 
swered, “ and of course you know there is 
no question of my choosing to wait. You 
will find me here.” 

revoir, then,” she said. The next 
moment she vanished from his side, and he 
only caught a glimpse of her bent head over 
Frank Eston’s shoulder, as they joined the 
waltzers. He did not trouble himself to 
find a seat, or seek a companion, but re- 
mained where she had left him, leaning 
against the side of an open window in the 
careless, languid fashion that had been a 
revelation to the country-bred youths of 
Ayre. Glancing out on one side, he saw 
the cool, dark arcades stretching away in 
long vistas, broken here and there by gleam- 


76 


MABEL LEE. 


ing lamps; glancing in on the other, he 
watched the gay crowd shifting its many 
colors like a kaleidoscope, and, if Tennyson 
had given his “Maud” to the critics sev- 
eral years before its actual appearance, he 
might have solaced himself by quoting the 
sweetest love-song of our day, and mur- 
mured, as he saw Mabel first nearing him 
in the dance : 

“ Come forth, little head, sunning over with curls, 

To the flowers, and be their sun ; 

In gloss of satin, and glimmer of pearls, 

Queen lily, and rose, in one.” 

As it was, however, he only thought 
the same thing, in much less poetical form. 

“It is confoundedly warm in here,” he 
said to himself, “ and these people bore one 
to ‘death. Instead of the waltz, I shall 
take her out into the grounds, and I only 
hope — ” 

He broke 06 ^“ abruptly, for she had 
reached him, and, as he stepped forward to 
claim her, whirled past again more rapidly 
than before. He could not see that she did 
so with little or no volition of her own ; 
that Frank Eston had borne her on quite 
against her intention or desire, saying, “We 
are just in the spirit of it, and this has been 
only a taste. One more turn. Miss Ma- 
bel ; ” nor did he catch the half-appealing, 
half-apologetic glance that she sent back to 
him, for at that moment Fate cast a sud- 
den and most unexpected treasure upon his 
hands in the substantial shape of Miss ISTina 
Eston. 

It chanced that this young lady was one 
of the best, if not the very best, among . the 
fair waltzers of Ayre, and, to use her own 
form of asseveration, was “perfectly de- 
voted ” to that Terpsichorean exercise ; but 
it also chanced that she was unfortunately 
addicted to a trick of losing her head, on all 
waltzing occasions, and, unless she had a 
partner who was capable of regulating her 
course, was very apt to increase her pace 
until she came to grief in consequence of 
colliding with some unwary couple, or over- 
turning some innocent bystander. On this 
occasion, she had been dancing with a young 
college friend of her brother’s, a thin, pale 
‘ youth who knew the least in the world 
about waltzing, who took wild, uncertain 


steps in every direction, and had not the 
strength of a feather with which to oppose 
his partner’s momentum when she took him 
by the shoulder and carried him along, help- 
less and terrified, at a whirlwind rate of 
progress. The lookers-on laughed, for they 
saw that a catastrophe was inevitable, and 
more than one of them said, “ Poor fellow ! 
he’ll know what’s what, if he once feels the 
full weight of Nina’s hundred and fifty 
pounds.” That he did not feel it, was cer- 
tainly not the result of his own skill or 
Nina’s caution, or their common good for- 
tune ; but was simply owing to the fact that 
Conway had stepped forward to meet Ma- 
bel, and had been left in the lurch in the ig- 
nominious manner above recorded. For, 
just as Frank Eston whirled her past him, 
the unfortunate collegian was precipitated, 
without any agency of his own, full against 
Mr. Harding, who, with Miss Lavinia Crane 
on his arm, had been rash enough to at- 
tempt the passage of the room. Both gentle- 
men reeled, lost their balance, and came 
down together, with a thundering crash 
which 'was heard above the pealing of the 
band, and turned every eye at once upon 
them. Miss Crane had saved herself by 
dropping her escort’s arm and retreating 
with a slight scream, when she saw what 
was coming ; but Miss Eston would infal- 
libly have gone down in the common disas- 
ter, if Conway had not been at hand, and 
caught her just in time. He drew her back, 
and then lent his aid to the two unfortu- 
nates, who, instead of compassionating each 
other, were mutually angry and iiidignaut. 
Mr. Harding was very red, the collegian was 
very purple, and they both began talking 
in an excited tone as soon as they gained 
their feet. Finding that no bones were 
broken, Conway left them to settle the mat- 
ter as best they could, and went back to 
the real culprit, who stood aloof laughing as 
only a pretty hoyden of eighteen can laugh 
“ Did you ever see any thing more ab 
surd ? ” she cried, as he came toward her 
“ Of all people in the room, for that solemn 
Mr. Harding to have been knocked over 
and then if you could have met the look in 
poor Bartlett’s eyes when he went head 
foremost against him 1 I am very sorry, of 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAMt 


11 


course, for it was all my fault ; but I never 
saw any thing more ridiculous. And what 
a tremendous thump they made! I fully 
expected the floor to give way. It certain- 
ly would have done so, if you had not 
caught me, Mr. Conway. I am extremely 
obliged to you, for I am sure that poor boy 
would have been crushed to death between 
Mr. Harding and myself ; and then Ayre 
would never have got done laughing at 
me.” 

“Never got done laughing at you for 
crushing Mr. Bartlett to death? That 
would be rather a funereal subject for mer- 
riment, it seems to me. But I hope you 
are not hurt. It was rather close work.” 

“ I hope my dress is not hurt,” said she, 
examining the fleecy clouds of tarletan that 
enveloped her. “ That would be a matter 
of some importance. Look, please, Mr. Con- 
way, and see if there are any rents. I am 
almost sure I heard it tear.” 

Conway looked critically all over the 
skirt, and comforted her by the assurance 
that no rents were visible, wliich she de- 
clared to be quite providential, since the 
unhappy Mr. Bartlett had floundered about 
like a fish on land, or a cat in water, and 
might have done any amount of mischief. 

“I consider it really next thing to a 
miracle,” said she, putting up some locks of 
ruddy hair that were straying about unbid- 
den, for, though it was quite early in the 
evening, her violent exercise had made her 
look dishevelled before the ordinary time 
for that appearance. “If you could only 
imagine all the things he did with his feet ! 
Frankly, I don’t believe he ever tried to 
waltz before in his life. Is he coming this 
way again ? Oh, for mercy’s sake, Mr, Con- 
way, rescue me. Throw me out of the win- 
dow, if there is no other mode of escape.” 

“I will do better than that,” said Con- 
way. “Are you too tired for another 
round ? ” 

“ Oh, dear no — not too tired for a dozen 
more rounds with a partner who knows his 
business.” 

Bn avant ! said he, gayly ; and, when 
poor Mr. Bartlett came up to make his 
weak-voiced apologies for having been 
knocked over, he saw his partner floating 


round the room in the best of spirits and 
best of looks, on Lhilip Conway’s arm. 

Mabel saw it tc o, and felt more grieved 
than indignant thereat. “ He might have 
waited for me,” she thought; but she also 
thought it natural enough that he had not 
done so ; and instead of being cross to Frank 
Eston, according to the general impulse of 
feminine nature in such cases, she waltzed 
with him for some time, then pleaded fa- 
tigue, and sat down, looking, indeed, de 
cidedly pale and tired. 

“I don’t think I shall dance the next 
set,” she said to Constance ; but she glanced 
down on her tablets the next moment, and 
shook her head. “I see that I must,” she 
added. “ It is Mr. Ainslie’s set, and I can- 
not refuse him, for he was so good about 
giving up to somebody else before this even- 
ing. If it were anybody else, now — ” 

But, when Mr. Ainslie came up, he saw 
at once how weary she looked, and very 
summarily put all question of the set aside. 
“ You have had more than 'enough already 
of the heat and crowd,” he said. “ I think 
some fresh air would do you more good than 
any thing else. Have you admired any of 
Conway’s scenic effects yet? Let me take 
you out and show them to you.” 

“ Take her, by all means,” said Con- 
stance; and, although Mabel was rather 
reluctant to go, she made no demur, but 
submitted to be led away at once. 

About half an hour after this, Conway 
came up to Miss Lee in a very ill- humor in- 
deed. 

“ What has become of Miss Mabel ? ” de- 
manded he, in much the aggrieved tone of 
ohe who has been defrauded of some right- 
ful and undoubted piece of property. “ She 
threw me overboard in the coolest way im- 
aginable some time ago ; and now I cannot 
find her anywhere. What has she done 
with herself? ” 

“ She went out with Mr. Ainslie,” said 
Constance, answering over the heads of 
two or three intermediate people; for she 
chanced to be surrounded at the moment, 
being, in her own way, quite popular, espe- 
cially with men who were old enough to 
like to talk sense even in a ballroom, and 
those who were young enough to be in bash- 


MABEL LEE. 


rs 


fnl awe of the gayer belles of the evening. 
“You will find her in the grounds, Mr. Con- 
way ; I cannot tell you any thing more than 
that.” 

“ I met her down by the river, a quarter 
of an hour ago,” volunteered a youthful rep- 
resentative of the jeunesse doree. “ I’ll go 
and look for her, if you say so, Mr. Con- 
way.” 

“ You are very good,” said Mr. Conway, 
“ but I believe I prefer to go myself. I dis- 
trust people when they are too obliging, and 
I am afraid you have some interested motive 
at the bottom. Experience of the world is 
apt to make one cautious ; and after the 
manner in which I was treated a little while 
ago — ” 

“ Conway, get a partner, and he our 
vis-d-vis,'’’ said a gentleman, hurrying past, 
with a dark-eyed girl on his arm, who looked 
back and cried, “ 0 Mr. Conway, please do.” 

“ Conway, have you seen Miss Lavinia’s 
fan anywhere ? ” said Mr. Harding, coming 
up with the look and manner of a detective 
officer. “ She has lost it, and somebody said 
you had it.” 

“ How should I have it ? ” asked Conway, 
pettishly. “ Don’t keep me, my dear fellow 
— I am just now on my way to fulfil an en- 
gagement, and I can’t possibly stop.” 

“ But hold on ; that’s it in your pocket 
there, ’’cried Harding, seizing him. “I see 
the tassel. ” 

“ Nonsense ! you don’t.” 

“But I tell you I do.” 

“Where?” 

“ There.” 

He pointed as he spoke, and Conway, 
looking impatiently down, saw the tassel of 
a lady’s fan hanging from the breast-pocket 
of his coat. He jerked it out with a laugh, 
and held it toward the other. 

“ There, take it ! ” he said. “ I don’t 
know how Miss Lavinia’s fan came to he in 
my pocket. She must have dropped it in 
her consternation at your accident, and I 
must have picked it up under the impression 
that it was Miss Eston’s. If there are any 
more articles of her property missing, don’t 
come to me for them, I beg.” 

He hurried away, and Harding retraced 
his steps toward the owner of the recovered 


property, congratulating himself as he went 
that the fan had been recovered with so lit- 
tle trouble. Naturally, therefore, it was quite 
a damper when the lady shook her head at 
first sight of the silk and ivory toy. 

“It is not mine,” she said. “Mine was 
painted with Chinese figures, and had mara* 
bout feathers. Who did you take it from, 
Mr. Harding ? ” 

“ From my cousin.” 

“ Then I suppose it is Nina Eston’s. Yon- 
der she is, just across the room. Suppose 
you go and return it to her? ” 

“ After a while,” answered Mr. Harding ; 
for another waltz had just been struck up, 
and he had no mind for another collision. 

“ You had better go at once,” said his 
companion, warningly. “ If she sees it in 
your hand, she will come for it ; and there 
is really no telling what she might do in 
that case. She would think nothing of mak- 
ing you waltz with her, whether you would 
or no.” 

“ I am not afraid of that,” said Mr. Hard- 
ing ; hut he evidently thought it might be 
wiser to beard the lioness, instead of wait- 
ing for the lioness to beard him. So he cau- 
tiously made his way across the room, to 
I where Nina stood, surrounded by a staff of 
admirers. She received him with a courtesy 
that somewhat set at rest his fears of a vio- 
lent assault; but she denied in toto the own- 
ership of the fan. 

“ It is not mine,” she said. “ I think it 
is Mabel’s. Who did you say you got it 
from, Mr. Harding?” 

“From Conway.” 

“ Then of course it is Mabel’s,” said 
she, with a laugh. “I wonder you could 
imagine any thing else. We all know — Is 
this your set, Mr. Royston ? I am at your 
service. — I was going to say, Mr. Harding, 
that we all know — Dear me, Frank, take your 
foot oflf my dress !” 

“We all know that Conway is not likely 
to have any one else’s fan,” said Mr. Hard- 
ing, concluding the sentence for her, in his 
solemn way. Then he went back to Miss 
Crane, and told ‘her that for the present he 
would retain the property. 

“ When Miss Lee comes in, I will return 
it ” he said ; “ and, if she does not come in 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


79 


aeon, I may go and look for her. But I don’t 
think I am called upon to trouble myself 
about the matter just now.” 

Conway, meanwhile, having left the 
ballroom in search of Mabel, was fortunate 
enough to come face to face with her, not 
ten steps fi*om the door. She was walking 
slowly, leaning on Ainslie’s arm, and listen- 
mg rather than talking; but she perceived 
^\er quondam partner at once, and uttered a 
•flight exclamation. He smiled, and, stepping 
forward, drew her unoccupied hand under 
his arm, while he addressed himself not to 
her, but to Ainslie. 

“ I have just come out to look for you, 
Ralph,” he said ; “ and I am lucky to find 
you so soon. Mrs. Lee is anxious to see you, 
and begged me to send you to her immedi- 
ately. You’d better go at once — I will take 
charge of Miss Mabel.” 

“Mrs. Lee!” repeated Ainslie, in a tone 
of surprise. “You must be mistaken — it 
can’t be me she wants.” 

“ It is you, and no one else. She is in 
haste, too— so take yourself off.” 

“ Oh, I understaud,” said Ainslie, signifi- 
cantly. “Perhaps, however. Miss Mabel 
will not trouble you to take charge of her. 
She, too, may like to go to Mrs. Lee.” 

“If Miss Mabel is wise, she will stay 
where she is,” answered the other, decided- 
ly. “ The atmosphere is at fever heat in the 
pavilion just now.” 

“ I believe I will remain a little longer,” 
said Mabel, looking apologetir-ally at Ainslie. 

“ It is certainly much pleasanter out 
here,” he said, in answer to the look, “ and 
there is no better poli(;y than that of gather- 
ing roses while you may. It is not often one 
has such good opportunity for doing so.” 

He bowed, drew back, and entered the 
pavilion, v-^hile her new-found escort led 
Mabel away in the opposite direction. 

“ I cannot imagine any thing more shame- 
ful than the manner in which you, treated 
me,” he at once began. “ I wonder if re- 
morse on that score is the cause of your look- 
ing so pale ? To think that you should have 
given my waltz to anybody else — on this my' 
last night 1 ” 

“ But you heard how it was,” Mabel said, 
with a faint attempt at excuse. “Frank has 


been away at college a long time, and he only 
returned yesterday, and he just asked for 
one turn, and you said you would wait.” 

“ And did I not wait ? — and did I not get 
well rewarded for my waiting ? ” 

“ You got Nina,” said she, archly. “ No 
doubt you considered that as being well re- 
warded.” 

“ I don’t want to be uncivil with regard 
to Miss Eston,” returned Conway,^ coolly, 
“ but I was much nearer considering it as 
being well bored. You cannot make any 
excuse; you need not try. I was shame- 
fully treated, and I have fairly earned the 
right to name my own indemnification.” 

“ Name it, then,” said she, with a laugh. 
When he was away from her, she could re- 
member that it was indeed his “last night; ” 
but, when they were together, she could 
only realize the present, and almost uncon- 
sciously put from her the dark shade of com- 
ing sorrow. “ Name it, then.” 

“ Leave your partners to take care of 
themselves for the next half-hour, and come 
with me to the river-side. I know a charm- 
ing nook, which not more than two or three 
people have invaded to-night. You will be 
quiet there, and let your adorers look for 
you in vain.” 

She hesitated a moment. Inclination 
said “go;” prudence said “stay.” But, 
when inclination and prudence war to- 
gether in the breast of eighteen, with sum- 
mer stars shining down, and summer fra- 
grance wooing forward, it is not difficult to 
imagine how the strife will end. What dif- 
ference did it make about to-morrow ? To- 
night was all that was worth considering. 
To-night, with its roses of life and love, its 
wonderful chances of happiness. To-night, 
with its opportunities that would never 
come again — for who in such case needs to 
be told that “ eternity itself cannot restore 
the loss struck from the minute? ” So she 
hesitated only a moment, and then looked 
up quickly. 

“You are very moderate,” she said. 
“ Show me your nook, by all means.” 

It proved to be a lovely spot just by the 
river, where water-lilies fringed the bank, 
and cushions of moss spread over the roots 
of a large live-oak, whose giant trunk shut 


80 


MABEL LEE. 


in one side, while a thicket of luxuriant un- 
dergrowth rose behind. A spot which was 
as quiet and peaceful as if there had been no 
revelry within ear-shot; where the odorous 
midsummer night and the soft rush of the 
river had all the solitude to themselves, and 
filled it with a monotone of inexpressible 
sweetness. Conway arranged a seat for 
Mabel, and made her lean against the tree, 
while he himself sat down partly at her 
side, and partly at her feet. Then there 
was silence for several moments — silence 
which Mabel was the first 'to break. 

“Mr. Ainslie tells me that you have 
agreed to defer your departure,” she said. 
“ That is good news for all your friends in 
Ay re.” 

“Did he?” said Conway, with a start; 
and, if the darkness had not been all around 
them, she might have seen that he frowned 
suddenly. “ I wonder he told you ; for it 
is only deferred twenty-four hours. We 
agreed that it would be next thing to bar- 
barous to start, unless on a matter of life 
and death, the day after such dissipation as 
this. So we have put off our move until 
Friday ; but we go then, without fail.” 

“You are determined? ” 

“ Yes, I am determined. As I told you 
before, there is no good in staying any lon- 
ger.” 

After this, there was silence again. It 
was not Mabel’s place to combat this reso- 
lution, and she had not the faintest idea of 
attempting to do so. If she had known that 
one word of hers would influence him to 
change his mind, she would hardly have ut- 
tered that word. It was not in her to do it. 
Some women, without overstepping the 
boundary of womanly reserve, can stoop far 
enough to make their hearts intelligible to 
hesitating lovers ; but this woman was not 
of that stamp. To a frank question she 
would have rendered a frank answer ; but 
she could sooner have built a city than tak- 
en one step toward encouraging that ques- 
tion. A woman whom there would have 
been no difficulty in wooing, for she was 
almost grand in the simplicity of her hones- 
ty and truth, but a woman whom no man 
need hope to gain by half-expressed passion, 
or tacit avowal. She was perfectly silent, 


therefore, and it was Conway who spoke 
next: 

“ Yes, I am determined ; there’s nothing 
gained by keeping a sword hanging over 
one’s head, you know. Even if it i< to go 
to one’s heart, it might as well go soon as 
later. Don’t you think I am right ? Look 
at the matter from my point of view, and 
tell me — don’t you think I am right ? ” 

She could not see his face, for the light 
was dim, and he did not turn it toward her ; 
but his tone was full of suppressed passion, 
as they went out in the darkness ; and she 
had to steady her own voice for several min- 
utes before she could answer as quietly as 
she wished. 

“ How should I know, Mr. Conway ? 
How should I be able to judge ? ” 

“I think you know,” he replied, “and 
I am sure there is no one better able to 
judge. You cannot tell how hard I have 
tried to do right,” he went on quickly. “ It 
is not inclination that I consult in going 
away. With all my talk of Cathay, and the 
like, Seyton has been so pleasant to me, 
that I would willingly turn Arcadian for the 
rest of my life. But ‘ he needs must whom 
the devil drives,’ and what devil is there 
like poverty? Sometimes I think I would 
sell myself as bondsman for my whole ex- 
istence to buy one day — one hour — of free- 
dom now. Sometimes I think — ” 

He broke oflP abruptly — just in time. Al- 
ready he had said more than he meant to say; 
already he had told her every thing in voice 
and manner, if not in words ; but there was 
still time to pause. There was still time to 
curb himself before he was committed past 
recall, and he stopped short, resolved to do 
so. 

“I am a fool,” he said, “ and more than 
a fool, to talk to you like this. I have no 
right to rebel — life is no harder lines to me 
than to many another poor wretch who is 
warned away from Paradise by a flaming 
sword; but it seems hard to leave, certain 
that in all human probability we shall never 
meet again.” 

“Why not? You will come back to 
Ayre some day.” 

“ No,” said he, moodily. “No; I shall 
never come back to Ayre. My cousin Cyril 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT S DREAM. 


81 


will scarcely be likely to invite me ; and 
you — you will soon forget me.” 

“ You know better than that ! ” 

“How should I know better than that? 
It is the nature of people to forget those 
who play no active part in their lives. 
Kow, I go, out of your life to-morrow, and 
I shall never enter it again. Years hence, 
wlien you are the beautiful Mrs. Somebody, 
the leader of county fashion, you will re- 
member me as a poor soldier of fortune who 
once had the honor of contributing to your 
amusement.” 

“ Ah ! ” 

It was a low, faint cry which he wrung 
from her, and which came to him full of 
pained reproach, striking wdth a sudden re- 
morse a sudden sense of his own impru- 
dence. The lamp-light did not pierce where 
they were sitting, but Ids eyes had by this 
time grown accustomed to the clear star- 
light of the June night; and, turning tow- 
ard her, he saw that she was quivering from 
head to foot, and only controlled her emo- 
tion by the strongest possible effort. That 
sight broke down the last barrier of pru- 
dence and resolution. They had been grow- 
ing weaker and weaker, the temptation 
stronger and stronger for some time, and 
now they were swept utterly away by the 
tide of feeling that rushed over him. After 
all, what were these scruples and hesita- 
tions but the voice of the world, and what 
had the world to do with them that night? 
Better one hour of freedom than a lifetime 
of bondage — better one long, deep draught 
of the sweet elixir of love, than to go down 
to the grave with the cry of the starved 
heart still unsatisfied. Come what might, 
he could not leave her thus — he must speak 
now. If it was only to say farewell, they 
must say it with heart bared to heart. So 
he made a sudden movement, and possessed 
himself of her hands, grasping them tightly, 
holding them firmly. 

‘‘ Forgive me,” he said hurriedly ; “ for- 
give me if I have pained you. I did not 
mean it. I don’t think you will forget me. 

I only wish to God that you could ! ” 

She looked up at him, with breath half 
hushed on her lips. 

“ Why do you wish that ? ” she asked. ' 
6 


“ Don’t — don’t say any thing more if it is 
wrong. I will go back now.” 

She made a movement to rise; but he 
held her, so that it was an impossibility, 
and spoke — this time without a shade of 
hesitation. 

“ Why do I wish it? Only because it is 
selfish and cruel to tell you that I love you, 
to strive, or even to wish to link your life 
with mine — to cloud your bright future with 
my dark one — and to bind you, by even so 
much as a memory, to one little worthy of 
you. Others can bring something besides 
themselves ; but what have I to offer ? A 
tarnished name, a bankrupt fortune, a — O 
Mabel, why did I not fight tlie fight to the 
end, and go away without having been mad 
enough to say all this ! ” 

It was a strange form for a declaration 
of love; but the earnestness, the sincerity, 
the passion of his words, thrilled through 
and through the girl who listened — showing 
her all at once how dear she was to him, 
and how he had hesitated for her sake 
rather than for his own. With this reali- 
zation, came the consciousness — scarcely 
understood before — of what he was to her, 
and the impulse to show him how little she 
regarded the worldly question that weighed 
so heavily with him. So, she looked up 
after a moment, and spoke simply but 
steadily : 

“ If it is of me you are thinking, don’t 
regret what you have said. If love is worth 
any thing at all, it is certainly worth more 
than all these things of which you speak. 
You know best whether or not you must 
go ; whether or not we must part to-mor- 
row ; but I know best this — that it is better 
to part knowing that we love each other, 
better to have the open right to think of 
each other, and, it may be, to wait for each 
other, than to have left that love unspoken 
perhaps forever. Even if we have to give 
each other up, I think we can better do it 
face to face with the knowledge of our own 
hearts, than secretly and by stealth. As for 
these worldly drawbacks, they seem so little 
to me that I can scarcely realize how you 
count them so much. But you may be 
right. I cannot tell that; I can only tell 
that, come what may in the future, we will 


82 


MABEL LEE. 


be richer to the end of our lives for this 
hour.” 

The sweet, clear voice ceased, but the 
spirit of her words had gone home to her 
listener’s heart more powerfully than if she 
had spoken with all the eloquence of all the 
schools. No man knew better than he the 
manner in which worldly wisdom would re- 
fute such philosophy — no one had ever 
mocked more openly or more persistently 
at such sentiments; but, just then, he could 
sooner have refuted — sooner have mocked 
an angel from heaven. The knowledge 
came to him — as it comes to all sooner or 
later — that there are diviner things on this 
earth of ours than the bodies we inhabit, 
and the needs that go with them ; that there 
are powers neither tangible nor material 
which no man can safely disregard ; and 
that who so constructs a philosophy ignor- 
ing these powers, or professing to curb them 
by the strong hand of force, must pay the 
penalty of rashness and folly. To the very 
core of his heart he felt her last words, 
“ Come what may in the future, we will be 
richer to the end of our lives for this hour ” 
— and he bent down and laid his lips on the 
hands he still held. 

“You are right — I am wrong,” he said. 

“ Yes ; we will 'be richer always for this 
hour, and we will not speak of parting. 
You are mine now, and I shall not sur- 
render you at any earthly bidding.” 

Half an hour later Nina Eston was leav- 
ing the pavilion with Ainslie, when they 
came upon Mr. Harding just entering it. 
He looked so singularly pale and disturbed, 
that both of them paused involuntarily. 

“ Why, Harding ! What is the matter ? ” 
Ainslie asked. 

“ Have you seen a ghost, Mr. Harding ? ” 
the young lady cried. 

Harding shook his head, and gave a sort 
of forced smile, as he strove to pass on, but 
his lips quivered in the effort, and so did his 
voice when he answered : 

“ Nothing is the matter with me, and I — 

I have not seen any ghost. Can you tell me 
where Miss Lee is, Ainslie — Miss Constance, 

I mean? I have her sister’s fan in my pos- 
session, and I want to give it to her.” 

“ Why don’t you return it to Miss Mabel ?” 


“I have been looking for her, and— and 
I cannot find her.” 

“Yonder is Miss Constance, then; but I 
should not think the possession of a fan 
would cause you so much uneasiness.” 

“ It seems to cause him more than un- 
easiness,” said Miss Eston," as they walked 
on, while Mr. Harding pursued his way to 
Constance. “ He appears to be seriously 
troubled, and looks for all the world as if he 
had seen a ghost.” 


CHAPTEE XIY. 

THE EOSE BY THE WATEE’s EDGE. 

Daylight was beginning to break in the 
east, when Mr. Seyton’s boat unloaded a 
party of very pensive and yawning passen- 
gers at the foot of Mrs. Lee’s garden. The 
ball was over, midsummer night was past, 
and the pale faces and crushed dresses 
looked very little in keeping with the fresh 
summer morning, whose purple dawn and 
early birds had shamed their late revelry. 
Mrs. Lee looked ennuyee and pettish, Con- 
stance seemed fairly worn out, and Nina 
Eston, who had been left by her own party, 
and accepted Mr. Seyton’s invitation to re- 
turn with him, was wearied and dishevelled 
to the last degree. She had not opened her 
lips (excepting to yawn), from the island to 
Ayre; but she landed with alacrity when 
their destination was once reached, and, 
having made her acknowledgments to Mr. 
Seyton, took her brother’s arm to go home. 

“We must make haste, Fran^,” she said, 
as they went up the garden-path, and into 
the back piazza together. “ It is growing 
light very fast, and I am such an object 
that I would not like to be seen even by a 
pig. Oh, dear ! ” (with a tremendous yawn), 
“I wonder when I ever will get sleep 
enough again? — Mabel, you surely are not 
talking about going anywhere to-morrow — 
to-day, I mean ? ” 

She stopped as she spoke, and looked 
with a sort of sleepy curiosity at Mabel, 
who was standing on the piazza-steps with 
Conway, and who answered with a smile: 

“ I am only talking of going on the river 


THE ROSE BY THE WATER’S EDGE. 


83 


late this eveniug, Nina. We will surely 
have had sleep enough by that time, won’t 
we? ” 

“ I don’t know whether you will, but I 
am sure I shall not. — Mr. Conway, you ought 
to be ashamed to make such a proposal ! She 
should not go.” 

“Not at six o’clock this evening. Miss 
Eston ? ” 

“ Indeed, no ; nor at six to-morrow 
evening, either. Besides, I thought you 
were going away ? ” 

“ I thought so myself, but I am really 
afraid I shall not be able to tear myself 
from Ayre. — Don’t forget,” he went on, 
turning to Mabel, “that you need not feel 
bound to go if you are tired.” 

“ There is no fear of my being tired,” 
Mabel answered ; v/hile Nina shrugged her 
shoulders, and went on into the house. “ I 
will be ready for you. And, Philip — ” 

“ Mia caraf ” 

“ Shall I tell Constance and mamma 
now, or shall I wait for you to do so? ” 

Conway hesitated; then answered, on 
the spur of the moment : 

“Wait — a little while, at least. I owe 
it to my uncle to speak to him at once ; and 
then we will see about the rest. That is — 
but you had better do as you think best. If 
the opportunity offers, tell them, and — ” 

“ Conway, we are waiting for you,” 
came Ainslie’s voice from the boat. 

“ I must go,” said he, reluctantly. “ I 
will see you this afternoon. Good-by.” 

“Good-by,” she echoed, drawing her 
hand gently from the lingering clasp of his. 
Then she watched him down the garden- 
path, until he vanished from sight ; and, af- 
ter he was finally gone, turned, and entered 
the house. 

She found that Nina and Frank had tak- 
en their departure, while Mrs. Lee had 
thrown herself into a chair, and declared 
that she was too tired to go up-stairs. 

“ I knew I should be fatigued to death,” 
she said ; “ but then nobody minds me — no- 
body ever did, for that matter. I only hope 
I shall not have one of my nervous attacks 
to pay for it.” 

“ I hope not, I am sure,” said Constance, 
very sincerely. “But, if you are so tired, 


mamma, you ought to go to bed. Shall 1 
help you up-stairs? ” 

“ No,” answered Mrs. Lee, snappishly. 
“ I can drag myself up-stairs by myself. 
You need not trouble yourself, Constance. 
It makes no matter about what I endure. 
I must only beg that you will not talk any 
in your room to-night, or I shall not sleep a 
wink.” 

“ Certainly we shall not, mamma, if you 
desire not. Indeed, we should hardly have 
been likely to talk any way. Mabel must 
go to sleep, and I am very tired.” 

“I am often kept awake by your talk- 
ing,” said Mrs. Lee, fretfully. “ I have 
meant to speak about it several times ; but, 
then, I bear a great deal, sooner than com- 
plain. Nobody could ever say of me that I 
complain, without great provocation. I as- 
sure you of that, Constance.” 

“ Yes, mamma.” 

“ And I beg, therefore, that there may 
not be even so much as one word spoken to- 
night. Talking is not necessary to undress- 
ing ; and, before you go to bed, I wish you 
would bring me a glass of warm sangaree. 
It may make me sleep.” 

“ Will not cold do, mamma ? None of the 
servants are awake, and there is no fire. I 
don’t see how I could get any warm water.” 

“It is always the way whenever I want 
any thing,” said Mrs. Lee, injuredly. 
“ Heaven knows it is seldom enough I 
make any demands on other people’s time 
or patience ; and yet this is always the way. 
If I were like some people, and gave a great 
deal of trouble, I might be attended to ; but, 
as it is, you need not trouble yourself about 
the sangaree. I can go to bed ; yes, and 
stay awake, too, without it.” 

“If cold will do, mamma — ” 

“ Cold will not do. I abominate cold 
sangaree. Give me a candle, unless I am to 
go to bed in the dark, and let me try to get 
a little rest, at least.” 

Constance brought the candle very 
quietly, and lighted her up-stairs with it. 
Then she came down again to find the ma- 
terials for the cold sangaree, which, after 
she was in her chamber, Mrs. Lee gracious- 
ly agreed to take, and bade Mabel go to bed 
without waiting for her. 


84 


MABEL LEE. 


“ I will come as soon as I can, dear,” 
she said ; “ but go to bed yourself, and be 
sure you go to sleep.” 

“I will try,” said Mabel. Then she 
kissed her, and went up-stairs. 

It took Constance some time to find a 
nutmeg for her sangaree, and when at last 
she had administered it, and entered her 
own room, she found that Mabel’s trying 
had resulted better than she herself had ex- 
pected; for she was fast asleep, lying back 
on the pillows, in the attitude of a tired 
child, and breathing with the gentle regu- 
larity of profound sleep. 

“ I am so glad ! ” thought the patient, 
tired, elder sister; and she extinguished 
the candle at once, and knelt down to say 
her prayers in the early, purple dawn. 

The purple dawn had changed to broad, 
bright afternoon, however, when Mabel at 
last awoke with a start. She looked about 
her, somewhat bewildered for a moment, 
wondering what she was doing in bed at 
that hour of the day, and why the house 
was so quiet. But the next instant, recol- 
lection flashed over her — the ball, her bright 
gala-dress, her gay reign of enjoyment and 
triumph, the lights, the music, the dancing, 
all came back at once; and with them another 
yet brighter and sweeter memory — a mem- 
ory which caused the warm blood to rush 
over every portion of the fair skin which 
was visible; and, although she was all alone 
in the room, made her bend her face down, 
and cover it with her hands, while a tide of 
golden hair fell heavily all about her. It 
was true, then — he had spoken ! He had 
told her that he loved her, he had asked her 
to share his fortune for good or for ill, to the 
end of their lives ; he had made her under- 
stand hew fair and sw’eet and lovely every 
thing that she did or said was in his eyes. 
And she — ah, she clasped her hands and 
wondered if he even half guessed how in- 
finitely dear he was to her, this stranger, 
this knight-errant, this fairy prince who had 
entered her life like a dream, and made it 
one long story of romance. 

It was no wonder that she lingered long 
over her toilet, for he had said that he was 
coming that afternoon, and she must dress 
for him. What a labor of lOve that dress- 


ing was ; and when at last she came down, 
and opened the sitting-room door, how fair 
and sweet she looked to Constance’s loving 
eyes, arrayed in a white muslin that had 
just come pure and spotless from under 
Haney’s smoothing-iron, and with a cluster 
of blush-roses in her breast ! 

“ Come in, dear, but don’t make a noise,” 
said Constance, in a low voice. “Mamma 
waked with a nervous headache, so she is 
still in bed, and we must be very careful. 
How pretty you look ; and not at all as if 
you had danced all night.” 

“That is because I have slept all day,” 
said Mabel, with a smile. “ When did you 
get up, Constance ? And why did you let 
me be so lazy ? ” 

“I got up long ago,” answered Con- 
stance, as she rang a bell near her hand ; 
“and as for your being lazy, I was only too 
glad to see you sleeping. — Bring in Mabel’s 
dinner, Haney,” she added, as a black face, 
surmounted by a red-and-yellow turban, ap- 
peared at the door. 

“ Dinner ! ” repeated Mabel, in dismay, 
“Is it so late. Did you finish dinner while 
I was in bed ? ” 

“It is nearly five o’clock,” said Con- 
stance. “I finished my dinner sometime 
ago, and — but there is mamma’s bell.” 

A tinkle was heard in the upper regions, 
whereupon down went her work, and away 
she went, to answer a demand for the bot- 
tle of cologne, or something equally impor- 
tant. 

Mabel wandered to the garden-door, and 
stood looking out at the river, that gleamed 
by under the sweeping willows — ^that river 
that would bring her lover to her after a 
while — when Haney came in with a tray, 
bearing a cup of coffee, a broiled chicken, 
two or three of the light rolls on which 
Haney prided herself, and a feathery ome- 
let. 

“ It’s a deal more like a breakfast than a 
dinner, honey,” she said, as she set it down, 
“ hut Miss Constance would have it so ; 
and vegetables don’t keep warm good, no 
how, so there was a nice corn-pudding and 
potatoes for dinner, not to speak of the 
peas and the sparrowgrass — ” 

“ This is all I care for, Haney,” said Ma- 




rj 





“‘Good-day, Francis. Don’t make a noise, please. Mamma is very unwell.’” 

p. 85. 


I 


THE ROSE BY THE WATER’S EDGE. 


.85 


bel, turning round ; and, indeed, it proved 
to be much more than she cared for. It 
must be a singular sort of person who has 
any appetite the day after dancing all night; 
and, although Mabel drank her coffee, and 
was very glad of it, the rest of the dinner 
did not receive similar appreciation. She 
triUed over the chicken and rolls, but her 
absolute consumption came to so little, that 
she was forced to call in the friendly and 
willing assistance of a large cat, who was 
washing her paws in the depths of Con- 
stance’s work-basket. AVith this aid, the 
dinner had been partially, at least, dis- 
patched, when Constance herself came 
back. Now was Mabel’s time to tell her 
sister all the last night’s history ; but, as 
she looked up, meaning to do so, she was 
startled by the pallid aspect of the face at 
which she gazed, and she forgot her own 
story in sudden anxiety. 

“What is the matter, dear? ” she asked. 
“I never saw you look worse. Is it only 
because of the hall? Dissipation does not 
seem to agree with you.” 

“ It is only because I am a little tired, 
and my head aches,” Constance answered. 
“ Nothing much is the matter. Don’t 
trouble about me.” 

“ Nobody ever does trouble about you,” 
said Mabel, a little indignantly ; “ and that 
is the reason why you fag yourself to death. 
My darling, you are the best one of us, and 
you bear all the burden. It seems so hard.” 

“ No ; not hard at all,” said Constance ; 
but, nevertheless, she laid her head down 
right wearily on the soft shoulder that was 
near, as Mabel came and put her arms about 
her. Nobody knew how much of the pain 
and the weariness those clinging arms took 
away, nor how doubly hard a burden Con- 
stance would willingly have borne for this 
reward. 

The two sisters were still standing to- 
gether, when there came another sharp tin- 
kle, and Mabel said, with a half-impatient 
sigli : 

“ Mamma’s bell again. Let me go this 
time, and do you stay here and take a cup 
of coffee.” 

“ No, no, ’ said Constance. “You know 
mamma does not like any one but me in her 


room, when she has these attacks. And, as 
for the coffee — I had some at dinner. Let 
me go, dear.” 

“ If you will,” said Mabel ; but she kissed 
her before doing so. “You dear, dear sis- 
ter,” she said. “ If I were ever so miserable 
in any other way, Constance, I don’t think 
I should be utterly forlorn wliile I had 
you.” 

“ And you are the very sunlight of my 
life,” said the other, passionately ; and then 
she laughed a little. “We are growing 
quite sentimental ; and I, at least, ought to 
he too old for that. Come, let me go. 
There is the bell again.” 

Mabel let her go, but she took up her 
hat, and the volume of Browning, at the 
same moment. 

“ If I am to be left alone,” she said, “ I 
am going into the garden. Will you come 
after mamma is done with you? ” 

“I am afraid I cannot. She may want 
me again at any moment. Don’t let me 
keep you in, though. Only please don’t go 
on the river to-day. I am a little uneasy 
about you. You are not used to such fa- 
tigue as that of last night.” 

“But it agrees with me excellently. 
However, I won’t go on the river, if you 
say not. I can’t stay here, though, and 
face Nancy when she sees that omelet. 
Tell mamma I am so sorry about her head- 
ache, and — ” 

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle! 

“ Go, go,” said Mabel, laughingly, as she 
pushed her sister toward the door. “ Mam- 
ma must be dreadfully impatient, or she 
would not ring in that way. Give her my 
love, and come to the garden, if you can.” 

She waved her hand gayly, and flitted 
out of the open door. The last thing Con- 
stance saw, as she herself left the room, was 
a flutter of the white dress among the green 
shrubs outside. 

An hour or two later Mr. Nowell came 
in, and found Constance sitting alone in her 
usual seat, busily engaged in her usual work. 
She looked up as he entered, and gave him 
the same caution she had given Mabel. 

“ Good-day, Francis. Don’t make a 
noise, please. Mamma is very unwell.” 

“ Just as I expected,” said Mr. Nowell, 


86 


MABEL LEE. 


with a little air of triumph. “I said from 
the first this would be the result of your 
island folly. And Mabel — is she sick, 
too ? ” 

“ The farthest in the world from it,” 
answered his cousin, smiling. “I never 
saw her look more blooming than she does 
to-day. And I really don’t think the island 
folly, as you call it, had any thing to do 
with mamma’s indisposition. It is just one 
of her usual headaches.” 

“ It may be one of her usual headaches ; 
but, no doubt, the exposure of last night 
gave it to her. I am glad to hear that Ma- 
bel is well, for I, was afraid — Where is she? 
In bed yet?” 

“No. She came down an hour ago, and 
went into the garden. You will find her in 
the arbor, probably.” 

“Won’t you come with me?” 

“ I believe not. I must be within hear- 
ing of mamma’s bell.” 

He went away without further apology, 
for he stood very little on ceremony in his 
aunt’s house, .and he was more anxious to 
see Mabel, and make some amends for his 
ungracious refusal of the night before, than 
he oared to acknowledge even to him- 
self. The remembrance of his hardness had 
tormented him unspeakably, and he went to 
seek her in a strangely softened mood — a 
mood which melted even his rugged face 
into something like gentleness. 

Constance’s swift needle had not trav- 
elled over more than one short seam, before 
he returned, looking vexed and disappointed. 

“ You sent me on a bootless errand,” he 
said. “ She is not there.” 

“ Not there I ” repeated Constance, won- 
deringly. “ She must be there, for she is 
not in the house, and I am sure she has not 
gone out. You did not look well, Fran- 
cis.” 

“ I went to the arbor first, and then 
walked round the garden,” he answered. 
“ If you don’t call that looking well — But 
she is not there. Perhaps she is up-stairs? ” 

“No. I was in her room ten minutes 
ngo. I assure you she went into the garden, 
and if she is not there she must have gone 
on the river. Yet that cannot be, for I 
asked her not to do so.” 


“I doubt if your asking would avail 
much, if Mr. Conway brought his boat and 
persuaded her.” 

“ Yes, it would. Mabel never broke a 
promise in her life ; and she promised me 
not to go on the river this afternoon.” 

“Promised? ” 

“ Yes ; promised.” 

“Humph I” said Mr. Nowell, dryly. 
“ Come, and let us see.” 

“ As you please,” she answered ; “ but I 
know I am right.” 

She put aside her work, and went down 
the garden-path to the arbor. Mabel had 
been there, evidently, for a chair was drawn 
before the table, where the volume of 
Browning lay open, with her handkerchief 
and one of the blush-roses marking the 
page. 

“ She is near by somewhere,” said Con- 
stance ; “ in the orchard, perhaps.” And 
she sent her voice through the calm summer 
afternoon, with the clearness of a bell, call- 
ing again and again her sister’s name, but 
no answer was returned. 

“Now come down to the steps,” said 
Nowell, who had stood by silent. “Per- 
haps we may find some trace of her there, 
despite your incredulity.” 

Constance shook her head; but she went 
along with him, and they soon reached the 
landing-place, which was as silent and de- 
serted as the arbor. 

“You see,” she said, triumphantly. 

“ Yes, 1 see,” answered her cousin, quiet- 
ly, and he pointed to a mark on the wet 
sand, w’^hich had evidently been lately made 
by the prow of a boat.” 

“You forget,” said Constance, “the 
boat this morning.” 

“ That was never made by a twelve-oar 
boat,” he replied, sharply. “ It is the mark 
of a skiflT; and, instead of being made this 
morning, it has been done within the last 
hour.” 

“ I scarcely think so.” 

“ Perhaps this will convince you, then,” 
and, suddenly stooping down, he took up 
something which lay just at the foot of the 
steps, by the water’s edge. Turning to Con- 
stance, he placed it in her hand. 

It was one of the blush-roses. 


A lAlRY FLITTING. 


87 


CHAPTEK XV. 

A FAIRY FLITTINO. 

“ It is very inconsiderate of Mabel to go 
off and stay in this manner. It shows very 
little regard for my sufferings, and still less 
for my wishes. She knows that I quite dis- 
approve of her going to Seyton House with- 
out a chaperone, now that there are so 
many gentlemen there. I really think, Con- 
stance, that you might have interfered to 
prevent her doing so.” 

It was Mrs. Lee who spoke thus, in the 
most fretful tone imaginable, as she and 
Constance were taking breakfast at quite a 
late hour, on the second day after the ball. 
She had somewhat recovered from her ner- 
vous headache, but had been fortunate 
enough to find it replaced by an important 
grievance, in the shape of Mabel’s non-ap- 
pearance since the evening before. She had 
been talking in a steady, querulous stream 
for some time. How she stopped, and 
looked at her daughter, as if demanding an 
answer. 

“ Indeed, mamma, I could not help it,” 
Constance replied. “ I was occupied with 
you, and Mahel went without telling me 
that she was going.” 

“But it is very strange. Don’t you 
think it is very strange that she has not re- 
turned ? ” 

“ I think it is a little strange,” said Con- 
stance ; “ but then Mabel must have had 
some good reason, we may be sure. Ho 
doubt Mr. Conway came for her in the boat, 
and they went farther than they intended, 
and she was obliged to stop at Seyton 
House. I am glad she had prudence enough 
not to come home after dark. 

“ But she might have come home be- 
fore,” said her mother, reasonably enough 
in substance, though far from reasonably in 
tone. “ And how do you know that she 
is at Seyton House? ” 

“ There is nowhere else for her to be.” 

“ You might have sent to inquire, at all 
events, and spared me this anxiety, which 
will end by bringing back my headache.” 

“ I would have sent, but I kept expect- 


ing her until dark, and, when I found she did 
not come, it seemed scarcely worth while to 
send old Uncle Jack two miles to find out 
that she had stopped at Seyton House.” 

“ But why have you not sent this morn- 
ing?” 

“ Only because I mean to go myself. If 
you want nothing just now, I will start at 
once.” 

“ And Mabel may be coming along the 
river while you are on the road.” 

“Well, what shall I do, then? Oh, 
here is Francis ! I will send him. He 
won’t mind taking a little trouble — will 
you, Francis ? ” 

“ Will I what ? ” asked Mr. Howell, em 
tering at the moment. — “Good-morning, 
aunt. I am glad to see you down- stairs. 
Will I what, Constance? ” 

“ Will you set mamma’s mind at rest by 
going after Mabel ? ” 

“ What 1 Has not Mabel come home 
yet ? ” 

“ Ho. She must have spent the night 
at Seyton House. I was going for her my- 
self; but mamma suggests I may miss her. 
How, if you will take a boat, and go — ” 

“ Of course I will,” said Mr. Howell, 
quickly. “ Why did you not let me know 
sooner? I would have gone last night, if 1 
had been aware that she did not return 
home. Did nobody see her leave ? ” 

“Hobody at all. But Haney says she 
heard the arrival and departure of a boat, 
and a man’s voice talking with Mabel ; so 
it must have been Mr. Conway, and she 
must have gone to Seyton House.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Howell. “But you 
ought to have let me know, nevertheless. 
I will go at once.” 

He was turning to leave the room, when 
Constance suddenly gave an exclamation of 
pleasure and relief. 

“Yonder is Mr. Conway now,” she said. 
“ Of course Mabel is with him. Ho — she 
is not.” 

“ Then he has come to let us know about 
her,” said Mrs. Lee. 

And, as she spoke, Philip Conway crossed 
the piazza, and stood in the open door. 

“Good-morning, Mrs. Lee — Miss Con- 
stance,” said he, advancing into the room, 


88 


MABEL LEE. 


and glancing quickly around, as he did so. 
“Mr. Nowell, good-morning. I am glad to 
see, ladies, that you have not suffered from 
our dissipation. Miss Mabel is not indis- 
posed, I hope ? 

He was astonished at the singular effect 
which this simple question produced. There 
was an instant’s silence, while cold upon the 
heart of each of his three hearers flashed 
the conviction that Mabel’s absence, which 
had seemed to them a moment ago only “ a 
little strange,” was, in truth, unaccountable. 
They gazed at Conway without speaking ; 
Mrs. Lee in bewildered surprise, Nowell 
with stern scrutiny, and Constance with a 
startled and doubting look, that was quite 
inexplicable to him. But she was the first 
to recover self-possession, and the very hor- 
ror of the undefined dread which had mo- 
mentarily seized her made her throw it off 
with incredulity. 

She forced a laugh, as she exclaimed, in 
a tone which, notwithstanding its cheerful- 
ness, was not quite steady ; 

“ I was just going to ask you about Ma- 
bel, Mr. Conway. Why did she not come 
with you? Mamma has been a little un- 
easy a .'Out her.” * 

It was Conway’s turn to be stricken 
dumb with amaze and apprehension. 

“I do not understand,” he said at last. 
“ I have not seen Miss Mabel. Is she not at 
home? ” 

“ Did you not come for her yesterday 
afternoon ? Is she not at Seyton House ? ” 
asked Constance, eagerly. 

“Certainly not. I have not seen her 
since yesterday morning ! ” 

Again there was a moment of blank si- 
lence, while glances of deepening astonish- 
ment and dismay were exchanged, and again 
Constance was the first to speak. By an ef- 
fort, she spoke with composure. 

“No wonder you are astonished, Mr. 
Conway. I suppose we are looking and act- 
ing very strangely. But we cannot help 
feeling a little uneasy about Mabel, now 
that we hear she is not at Seyton House. 
Are you sure she is not there ? ” she cried, 
suddenly. “ Perhaps she told you jestingly 
to say she was not. But no ; that is not 
like—” 


“ What do' you mean? ” demanded Con- 
way, in great agitation. 

“ Mabel left home yesterday afternoon, 
and has not yet returned. W e thought, of 
course, that she had gone with you on the 
river, and stopped at Seyton House. She 
must have gone with somebody else. Per- 
haps the Estons or Bradfords called at the 
landing, and persuaded her to go with them. 
Yes, she must have gone with them. It is 
very foolish of us to be alarmed in this way. 
— Francis, go and bring her home. It is 
foolish to be uneasy, but — ” 

Mrs. Lee, who had sat as if paralyzed 
during the preceding minutes, recovered the 
power of speech, as she saw Nowell silently 
hurry out of the room to do Constance’s 
bidding. 

“ Oh, she is drowned ! I am sure she is 
drowned ! ” she cried, in a shrill, excited 
tone. “You said you found that rose by 
the river. She is drowned. Oh, my poor 
child is drowned ! ” 

“What is that about the river?” de- 
manded Conway, growing very pale. “ For 
God’s sake, tell me ! ” 

Constance explained in a few words, 
while, unnoticed by either of her compan- 
ions, Mrs. Lee went off into something very 
nearly approaching to violent hysterics. 

“I see no reasonable cause for alarm,” 
Conway said, in a tone which reassured 
Constance, although she observed how pale 
he had become. “ No doubt she went on 
the river with some of her friends, and, be- 
ing late, spent the night with them. She 
may come in any moment. Meanwhile, I 
will look for her. Tell me where to go.” 

Constance ran over half a dozen places 
quickly, to not one of which, at another 
time, would she have considered it probable 
that Mabel had gone, and, almost before she 
finished, Conway disappeared. Then she 
called Nancy, and sent her in another direc- 
tion, while she herself ran down to the land- 
ing in the vague hope of seeing Mabel com- 
ing home. The deep, clear water made her 
shudder ; and there was nothing to be seen, 
so she hastened back again into the house, 
and found her mother just issuing from the 
front door bonnetless and distracted. 

“I must go and look for my child,” she 


A FAIRY FLITTING. 


89 


3ried, vehemently, as Constance, catching 
her arm, tried to draw her back. “ Let me 
go — I must look for her. O Mabel, Ma- 
bel, where are you? Mabel, don't you hear 
me? Mabel — ” 

“ Mamma, hush! ” said Constance, and 
she drew her into the sitting-room by main 
force, for her voice had risen at the last 
words into a scream, which rang shrilly up 
and down the quiet village street. “ Mam- 
ma, for Heaven’s sake, don’t! We are very 
foolish, I dare say. Mabel must be some- 
where. She will be here presently — she is 
sure to come. Francis and Mr. Conway are 
both looking for her, and — O Father Law- 
rence — ” 

She broke off thus, as a shadow dark- 
ened the door, and a tall, spare man, in the 
garb of a Catholic priest, came hurriedly in- 
to the room. 

“ My child,” he said, “ I met your cousin 
on the street a moment ago, and the news 
he told me has brought me at once — ” 

“ He has not found her then, father ? ” 

“No; but he was hurrying on to the 
Bradfords, hoping she might be there. My 
dear child, I trust you are not seriously 
alarmed, for it seems to me that the cause 
for fear is very slight.” 

“ But it is so unlike Mabel, father.” 

“We cannot say that. No exigency of 
the sort has ever occurred before — that is 
all. We cannot judge; but I see your 
mother is quite overcome.” 

“ Speak to her, father. See if you can 
reassure her.” 

The good priest — for no one could look 
in his face and meet his sweet, calm glance, 
without feeling sure that he was good — 
drew near, and bent over Mrs. Lee, who lay 
on the sofa. “My child,” he said, “my 
poor child, look up. You are very prema- 
ture in this excess of grief. God is very 
good to us, and never tries us beyond our 
strength. I think Mabel will return. I 
hope she will soon be in your arms. But, 
meanwhile, try to make an act of resigna- 
tion, and leave her to Him ; try to remem- 
ber — ” 

The click of the front gate at that mo- 
tient made Constance spring to her feet. 
The next instant she had left the room and 


met Nowell in the hall. His face told at 
once that his search had been fruitless. 

“Well?” she gasped. 

“ I can hear nothing of her,” he an- 
swered ; “ and I have been to every prob- 
able house in town. Call Nancy at once, 
and let me hear her story of the boat she 
heard.” 

“ Nancy is not here now ; I sent her out 
also. I would have gone myself, but mam- 
ma — ah, there she is now ! ” 

There was another click of the gate 
as she spoke, and Nancy came up the walk 
shaking her head dismally after the manner 
of her kind. 

“No news, Nancy?” 

“Nobody has seed or heard a thing of 
her, ma’am. A great many of the gentle- 
men said they was coming to help look for 
her, ma’am — but Mr. Nowell, he told ’em 
not — and the sweet child may be dead and 
drownded — ” 

“ Hold your tongue ! ” said Nowell, short- 
ly. “ Yes, I told them not to come. Ma- 
bel is certainly not lost in that way. Now 
tell me quickly and distinctly what you 
know about a boat coming yesterday after- 
noon.” 

“ I knows no more ’an I does know,” 
said Nancy, sullenly. She could not bear 
Nowell, and, even when her heart was 
wrung with grief, the dislike came over her 
at his peremptory tone. “ I heard a boat 
— that was all.” 

“ But what did you see ? ” 

“I never seed nothing.” 

“What did you hear, then? Be quick 
about it ! ” 

“ Tell every thing, Nancy, for Heaven’s 
sake ! ” said Constance. 

So adjured, Nancy told all, which was 
briefly this: She had been ironing in the 
kitchen, the afternoon before, and, as her 
table was just placed under an open window, 
she had heard the arrival of a boat at the 
landing-place. A little while after she was 
crossing the yard to hang out some clothes, 
and then she caught the sound of voices in 
the arbor, one of which was Mabel’s, and 
the other that of a man. Here Nowell in- 
terrupted her. Did she recognize the man’s 
voice ? No ; she did not recognize it at all. 


90 


MABEL LEE. 


It was not like anybody’s voice sbe knew ; 
but then she didn’t pretend to know many 
folks. Was it like Mr. Conway’s ? Nancy 
could not say, knowing nothing about Mr., 
Conway’s voice. Well, what kind of talk- 
ing did it seem to be? Very well pleased, 
as far as she could judge. She heard them 
both laugh several times ; and, the window 
being open, she heard Miss Mabel’s voice 
when they were going down to the boat. 
Did she hear what they said? No, not a 
word, only a murmur of laughing and talk- 
ing, and after a while the rattle of a chain, 
as the boat was unfastened, and the sound 
of oars in the water — that was all. Noth- 
ing else ? Nothing else at all. 

“You may go, then,” said Mr. Nowell; 
and, after she was gone, tossing her head in 
high offence, he looked steadily and silently 
at Constance. 

“What is it, Francis?” she asked. 
“ For Heaven’s sake, speak ! Any thing is 
better than this.” 

“ Do you want to hear my opinion, Con- 
stance ? ” 

“ Yes, yes — you know I do.” 

“It is that the viper you have been 
nursing among you all has stung you at last. 
The man you have trusted has betrayed you, 
as I told you, from the first, it was in him to 
betray.” 

“ Do you mean Mr. Conway ? ” • 

“Who else should I mean? Who else 
would Mabel accompany in the way you 
have heard described ? ” 

“But, my God! — what do you suspect 
him of?” 

“How can I tell? I am not a villain, 
and I cannot read a villain’s heart. He may 
have carried her off to marry her, and es- 
tablish a claim on Mr. Seyton — or he may 
have murdered her to put her out of his 
way.” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” cried Constance, ex- 
tending her hand with a gesture of horror. 
“ O Francis, that you can be so cruelly un- 
just ! You saw him when he heard the 
news ; you saw his astonishment, his agita- 
tion — he could not have simulated it.” 

“I believe that he could simulate any 
thing. I believe that he has carried off 
Mabel, and, by the God above us, jf I find 


even so much as a shadow of proof against 
him — ” 

“Hush!” cried Constance again, and 
there was atone of almost solemn command 
in her voice. “This is no time for such 
threats. Who cares for proof against him ? 
Find her for me, Francis — ” and the voice 
changed to a wail of agony — “you do not 
mean that any serious harm has befallen 
her? ” 

He took her by the shoulders and put 
her out of his path without a word. Then, 
as he was going, he turned and looked back 
at her. 

“You pray to God,” he said. “ I go to 
find her.” 


CHAPTEK XVI. 

CONFLICTING EVIDENCE. 

Twentt-foue hours later, it was a very 
weary and worn-out group of men who as- 
sembled in Mr. Seyton’s library, where Mr. 
Seyton himself sat, pale and haggard, with 
the wan, stricken aspect of an old man, 
under the sudden grief that had fallen upon 
him. After twenty -four hours of constant 
search, not a trace of Mabel Lee had been 
discovered ; and the searchers now as- 
sembled after their fruitless exertions to 
consult concerning what steps were to be 
taken next. 

Besides Mr. Seyton, Philip Conway was 
the only sitting figure; but he, who until 
now had not taken a moment’s rest since 
he first heard the news of Mabel’s disappear- 
ance, was so utterly exhausted that he ha.d 
fiung himself half unconsciously into a chair 
as soon as he entered the apartment, and 
sat in an attitude of profound dejection — his 
head drooped, his eyes fixed on the fioor, 
and apparently heedless of all around. Near 
him stood Ainslie, slowly drawing off a pair 
of riding-gloves, and listening the while at- 
tentively to Mr. Blake, who was briefiy de- 
tailing the failure of his efforts, though he 
had spent the day and the night in the sad 
die — a fact which was at once very evident, 
for his boots were splashed with mud, his 
clothes covered with dust, and his usually 


CONFLICTING EVIDENCE. 


91 


ruddy and genial face, hollow and overcast. 
Next to him Francis Nowell stood, leaning 
on the back of a tall chair, in the seat of 
which he had thrown his hat — a riding- 
whip still in his hand, and his eyes fastened 
steadily and ominously on the unheeding 
Conway. He, too, showed unmistakable 
traces of the wear and tear of physical fa- 
tigue and mental suffering; and even his 
friends might scarcely have recognized in 
his haggard face and sunken eyes the man 
they were accustomed to see. The only one 
of the group whose appearance had not al- 
tered in the least, but who seemed quite his 
usual self, with a shade, perhaps, of ad- 
ditional solemnity, was Mr. Harding, whose 
head and shoulders loomed up behind Mr. 
Seyton’s chair. He had made some pre- 
tence of joining in the search the day be- 
fore ; but had returned to the house in the 
evening, and spent the night quietly in bed. 

“ There is no trace or clew whatever, 
sir,” said Blake, “ excepting the confused 
story of a boat, which Mrs. Lee’s cook tells. 
Miss Constance thinks that her sister must 
have fallen into the river; and the Ayre 
people are dragging the stream. But, for 
my part — ” 

“It is sheer folly!” broke in Nowell, 
sternly. “ They must be made to think 
that Mabel could fall into the river. Let 
them drag it if they choose ; but it is not 
there — it is not in the river — that she must 
be sought.” 

“The matter is so unaccountably myste- 
rious,” said Ainslie, “ that it is almost im- 
possible to decide on our next course of ac- 
tion. If we had only the faintest clew to 
guide us — but I am afraid the cook’s story 
does not furnish one.” 

“That remains to be seen,” said Nowell, 
speaking in the same repressed voice as 
before, and coming forward to the table 
round which they were all grouped. “The 
cook’s story proves this much,” he went on, 
emphatically, “that some boat did arrive 
on that afternoon, and that Mabel accom- 
panied some person or persons on the river. 
What we have to do is to find that boat, 
and that person or those persons.” 

“Well?” said Mr. Seyton, in the tone 
of “ go on.” 


“ I will begin, sir, by asking you to ac- 
count for your own boat, which is the one 
most likely to have been used, and by 
requesting these gentlemen ” — he looked 
round the table at Mr. Seyton’s three guests 
— “to be kind enough to tell us how they 
were engaged on that afteiuioon.” 

“ Upon my word, Mr. Nowell,” said Mr. 
Harding, flushing up suddenly, “ do you 
mean to insult us, sir ? ” 

“ Hush, Harding ! ” said Mr. Ainslie, 
quickly. “ This question is a mere form. — I 
quite agree with you, Mr. Nowell,” he went 
on, turning to the young lawyer who stood 
before him. “ Of course it is best to do so. 
Shall we begin with the boat, or with our- 
selves ? ” 

“The boat is not here, and you are,” 
answered Nowell, briefly. “We will waste 
no time, if you please, but begin with your- 
selves. — Mr. Seyton, will you conduct the 
examination ? ” 

Mr. Seyton started, for he had sunk 
into abstraction, and looked up, as if sur- 
prised. 

“Certainly,” he said. “But it seems 
scarcely worth while — Philip is the only 
one who would have been likely to go for 
her, and Philip spent the afternoon with 
me.” 

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mr. 
Blake, abruptly. “ You forget that I -called 
to see you, and that you lost sight of Mr. 
Conway for some time, while we sat on the 
piazza.” 

“ But he was in this room. I left him 
here when I went out, and found him when 
I returned.” 

“ Can you vouch for his presence during 
that interval, sir? ” 

“Blake ! — What do you mean ? ” 

“I mean, sir,” said Blake, with a cer- 
tain dignity in his tone and manner, “ that 
this is no time for mincing matters, and that 
Mr. Nowell and I are both of one mind— 
there’s been black work here of some sort 
or other, and if Mr. Conway does not wish 
to be suspected, he had better lift up his 
head and clear himself at once.” 

The honest, indignant voice rang through 
the room fearlessly, and Conway lifted his 
head quickly enough. At first his face indi* 


92 


MABEL LEE. 


cated only profound astonishment, but as he 
met the looks of dark suspicion with which 
Blake and Nowell were regarding him, he 
rose and stood confronting them — amaze- 
ment, incredulity, indignation, rage, and 
scorn, chasing each other in quick succes- 
sion over his countenance. He seemed for 
a moment incapable of speech, but con- 
tinued to gaze at the two men with eyes 
literally blazing with passion, while the 
large veins rose and stood out like cords 
upon his clear, dark forehead. 

Shocked by the accusation just made, 
Mr. Seyton was about to interfere, but be- 
fore he had time to speak, Conway recov- 
ered self-possession and anticipated him. 
Unconsciously, perhaps, he drew himself 
up, and threw back his head, while the 
glance which was fixed on Blake’s eyes 
grew colder but more menacing. His whole 
air, and his voice, when he spoke, were 
different from his usual manner. Haughty 
and grave, he looked as he felt — the gentle- 
man addressing his inferior. 

“Did I hear you mention my name a 
moment ago, in a most extraordinary 
v\ay?” he said, in a tone so quiet that 
every one present felt the slight but sensi- 
ble thrill with which we listen to that low 
moaning of the wind which always pre- 
cedes the burst of a tempest’s fury. Mr. 
Harding turned a little pale, and shrank in- 
stinctively behind his uncle’s chair. But 
Blake did not fiinch. 

“Yes, Mr. Conway,” he was commen- 
cing, when Mr. Seyton stopped him. 

“ Not a word more, Blake ! ” he ex- 
claimed, the first real anger he had ever 
felt toward his faithful friend hashing in his 
eyes. “You insult me, not less than my 
nephew, by the infamous accusation which 
you dare to suggest. — My dear boy,” he 
continued, rapidly, looking up at Conway, 
“ forgive him, for the sake of the motive 
which prompts his zeal.” 

Before either Blake or Conway could 
-eply, Nowell laid his hand on the table, 
and addressed Mr. Seyton. 

“ Sir,” he said, in a grave and measured 
tone, “I respect your feelings; I am sorry 
to shock them by what I am about to say. 
But I must be heard: My cousin, whose 


nearest relative and natural protector I am, 
has suddenly and mysteriously disappeared 
from her home. I believe, and so does Mr. 
Blake, that she was either forcibly abducted 
or treacherously wdled away by this man ” — 
he pointed sternly to Conway. “It is right 
that you should hear a detail of the circum- 
stances upon which this belief is based, and 
that he should have the opportunity of prov- 
ing our suspicions to be unfounded before I 
formally make the charge against him at a 
legal tribunal. The following are the facts 
which I have gathered, and upon which my 
accusation rests : First — Mabel has, for more 
than a month past, been in the habit of 
going on the river almost every afternoon 
with this man; on no single occasion has 
she gone with any one else. Secondly — 
Frank Eston and his sister heard her make 
an engagement to go boating with him on 
the afternoon in question, as they parted at 
daylight, when returning from the ball. 
Frank and Miss Eston will both testify to 
this on oath. Thirdly — Mrs. Lee’s servant 
heard a boat come to the landing at the 
very time named when the engagement was 
made; heard a mau’s voice laughing and 
talking with Mabel in the arbor ; heard this 
voice and Mabel’s own, talking as they \vent 
down the garden-walk to the river; and 
heard the clink of the chain when the boat 
was unfastened. Shortly afterward, I my- 
self, together with her sister, saw the mark 
of the boat on the sand at the landing, and 
just beside this mark I found a fiower 
which Constance recognized as one of a 
cluster worn by Mabel that afternoon. An- 
other one of the same fiowers was lying in 
an open book which she had been reading 
in the arbor. Lastly — By Mr. Blake’s tes- 
timony and your own admission, you lost 
sight of Mr. Conway during a considerable 
part of the afternoon — fully two hours and 
a half, Blake thinks — during which time he 
could easily have taken the boat from hei 
mooring at the foot of the bluff, gone to 
Mrs. Lee’s landing, and persuaded my cous 
in to fulfil the engagement she had made, 
returning in time to be in the library when 
you rebntered it. What were the motives 
influencing him, and how he has disposed 
of Mabel, I pretend not even to conjecture. 


CONFLICTING EVIDENCE. 


93 


Here are facts, and I ask what Mr. Conway 
has to say regarding them?” 

“ That your suspicion is not so inexcus- 
able as I thought before hearing the circum- 
stantial evidence in support of it, and con- 
sequently I will endeavor to satisfy you, 
Mr. Nowell, that in this case, as in many 
others, circumstantial evidence is mislead- 
ing,” answered Mr. Conway, in his usual 
frank manner. He had listened to Nowell, 
as had Mr. Seyton, with a surprise which 
soon transcended every other emotion, ac- 
knowledging mentally that the young law- 
yer was not merely excusable but perfectly 
justified in entertaining a suspicion which 
wore such a plausible appearance. As he 
thought thus, his brow relaxed from the 
heavy frown that contracted it, the expres- 
sion of his face grew clear and open, and he 
continued in his natural tone of voice : 

“Your information concerning the en- 
gagement made by Miss Mabel Lee to go 
boating with me is perfectly correct. I 
« mentioned this engagement that morning 
at breakfast, as you, sir, may remember ? ” 
He turned to Mr. Seyton. 

“ Certainly! ” answered the latter, 

“My uncle,” proceeded Conway, “ob- 
jected to my taking Miss Mabel out that 
day, saying that, after the fatigue of the 
night before, she ought to rest. He even 
desired that I would not call upon her. He 
was going to send Anderson to Ayre in the 
afternoon, he said, and would tell him to 
stop at Mrs. Lee’s and inquire how the la- 
dies were. And he added that, if I was 
concerned at breaking my engagement, An- 
derson could take my apologies to Miss Ma- 
bel.” 

Again he turned to Mr. Seyton, who 
said, mournfully: “Yes, I remember. 
Would to God I had let you go!” And 
Conway knew, from the tone as well as 
the words, that there did not exist in his 
uncle’s mind a shade of distrust toward 
him. 

“ As I was leaving the breakfast-room,” 
he went on, “I met Anderson, and request- 
ed him to come to me for a note which I 
wished to send to Ayre, when he went there 
in the afternoon, and accordingly he came 
to me in the library at the time that my 


uncle was occupied with Mr. Blake. — You, 
Mr. Nowell, have adduced the statement of 
Mrs. Lee’s servant, that she heard a boat at 
the landing in her mistress’s garden, a man’s 
voice, and the departure of Miss Mabel. I 
will prove to you on equally reliable testi 
mony, that of my uncle’s valet, that I was 
in this room a very short time before my 
uncle returned to it from the piazza, and 
that he, Anderson, saw Miss Mabel Lee af- 
ter he had discharged the errand that took 
him to Ayre — having called at Mrs. Lee’s, 
he assured me, just before he left town to 
return home — at least an hour after he left 
me here in the library. — With your permis- 
sion, sir, I will ring for Anderson.” 

Mr. Seyton nodded his head, Conway 
rang, and Anderson, whose business it was 
to answer the library-bell, soon made his 
appearance, and approached the group sur- 
rounding his master, with a very solemn 
and rather startled expression of counte- 
nance. * 

“ Anderson,” said Conway, quietly — for 
he wished to put the man at his ease — “ An- 
derson, do you remember what time it was 
when you saw Miss Mabel Lee, on Thursday 
afternoon ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” was the prompt reply. “ I 
called at Mrs. Lee’s the last thing before I 
left town, and it was just six o’clock. I 
heard the town clock striking while I was 
waiting in the garden for Miss Mabel to an- 
swer your note.” 

“ You are sure it was six o’clock ? ” said 
his master. 

“ I’m sure of it, sir. I counted every 
strike of the clock, for Mr. Jones wasn’t at 
home when I went to his otfice, and — ” 

“Never mind about Jones. Might you 
not have been mistaken in counting the 
clock?” 

“ No, sir ; I know I wasn’t mistaken 
I noticed particular about the time, because, 
if you recollect, sir, you told me to hurry 
and get back, if I could, before Mr. Blake 
left, so that he could hear what Mr. Jones 
said. I started from here just a little before 
five. When I come for Mass Phil’s note 1 
looked at the clock there, and it wanted ten 
minutes to five; and I know I thought I 
could ride fast, and git back by six, but I 


94 


MABEL LEE. 


had to rim about so before I could find Mr. 
Jones that it was six when I got to Mrs. 
Lee’s.” 

“ And jou saw — ” 

Mr. Seyton’s voice failed. He could not 
pronounce the name of his lost darling. He 
cleared his throat, and said, “Whom did 
you see first at Mrs. Lee’s ? ” 

“I saw Miss Constance first, sir. She 
was coming down-stairs as I went up the 
front walk. She come to the front door to 
meet me, and after I had asked how they 
all was, I handed her the note for Miss Ma- 
bel. She took it, and then she give it back 
to me, and told me to go on through the 
house into the garden and that I would find 
Miss Mabel in the arbor. I went and found 
her there, and give her the note, and, after 
she read it, she started to go in the house 
to answer it. I told her I was in a great 
hurry, and asked her not to be long, if she 
pleased, and she laughed and said, ‘Well, if 
you’re in such a hurry, Anderson, I’ll just 
tear a leaf out of this book and write with 
a pencil ; but you must be sure and tell 
your Mass Phil that it’s not my fault I 
send him such a note.’ So she tore out a 
leaf and wrote on it, and told me to be sure 
and not lose it, and not to let anybody but 
Mass Phil see it. And then I hurried 
home.” 

“ And you counted the clock striking 
six while you were in the garden ? ” 

“Yes, sir. While Miss Mabel was writ- 
ing the note.” 

“You rode to Ayre?” asked Howell. 

“ Yes, sir. I went a-horseback ! ” 

“ There is one place on the road where 
there is a very good view of the river, just 
this side of town, you know. Did you no- 
tice the river — if there were any boats on 
it?” 

“Ho, sir. I didn’t notice the river go- 
ing* or coming. I was in a hurry both times, 
and was looking straight before me all the 
time.” 

“ That will do,” said his master, and An- 
derson retired. 

As soon as the door closed on his exit, 
Mr. Seyton raised himself in his chair with 
a look of more energy than he had yet ex- 
hibited. “ I hope, Mr. Howell and Mr. 


Blake,” he said, in a tone of cold displeas- 
ure, “ that you are now satisfied. Ander- 
son’s word would not be received in a court 
of justice, it is true, but if your acumen does 
not go so far as to suspect my nephew or 
myself of suborning his evidence, perhaps 
you may give it the same credit which you 
accord to that of Mrs. Lee’s cook, who is 
also ineligible in law as a witness ; and if, 
further, you do not suspect me of collusion 
with my nephew in the commission of the 
crime of which you have accused him, you 
may possibly accept my testimony as cor 
roborating what Anderson says relative to 
time. It happened that, as I am not fond 
of business, and Blake was talking of busi- 
ness all the while he was with me, I looked 
at my watch repeatedly. I had it in my 
hand when Anderson came to me for the 
message he was to take to Ayre. It was 
then fifteen minutes before five o’clock. 
My watch and that timepiece” — he pointed 
to the clock over the mantel — “generally 
run very well together. Saying that I de- 
tained Anderson five minutes giving him 
my directions, and I think that was about 
the length of time thus occupied, he would 
have entered the room precisely at ten min- 
utes to five, as he said. And half an hour 
afterward, by my watch, Blake took leave, 
and I came in from the piazza. That is to 
say, at twenty minutes after five I found 
my nephew where I had left him an hour 
and three-quarters before, for Blake is mis- 
taken in his estimate of the time spent in 
the piazza; I looked at my watch when I 
left the room and when I returned. There 
was an interval of one hour and three-quar- 
ters only. And from twenty minutes after 
five o’clock until bedtime, Philip was not out 
of my presence. If you do not reject An- 
derson’s testimony, and will bear in mind 
that he saw my goddaughter at six o’clock, 
you must acknowledge' Mr. Howell, that it 
proves an alibis 

Howell and Blake exchanged glances. 
Heither of them entertained a shade of 
doubt as to the truth of Anderson’s state- 
ment. An alibi was proven — that they 
could not dispute. It was clear that Con- 
way had not been himself the active agent 
in Mabel’s abduction or elopement ; but not 


CONFLICTING EVIDENCE. 


95 


tiie less were they confident of his guilt, 
llis astonishment when the charge was 
made, and the candor with which he after- 
ward admitted that circumstances afforded 
some ground for suspicion, they considered 
only a part of the plot — a specimen, perhaps, 
of his powers of dissimulation. 

After a momentary pause, Nowell spoke, 
in a tone as cold as Mr. Sey ton’s own. 

“We accept Anderson’s testimony, sir. 
It proves an alib% undoubtedly,” he said. 
“If you do not object, I will, as a matter 
of form ” — he laid a slightly ironical empha- 
sis on the last words — “ ask a few questions 
of yourself and these other gentlemen before 
we go to examine the boat. Mr. Conway, 
it seems, spent the afternoon and evening 
with yourself. Were Mr. Ainslie and Mr. 
Harding also with you ? ” 

“ Mr. Ainslie was on the terrace all the 
afternoon, I understand. Cyril was riding 
and came in about dark, or a little after. 
We all spent the evening together.” 

“ You were on the terrace all the after- 
noon, Mr. Ainslie ? ” 

“ I was, though I don’t know that I can 
produce any witnesses to the fact,” Ainslie 
answered, quietly. 

“The terrace commands a view of the 
river for some distance up and down. You 
would have noticed any boats passing, I 
suppose? ” 

“ I think so. I cannot say with cer- 
tainty that none passed, for I was reading, 
and, being thus occupied, they might have 
escaped observation. But I think that any 
movement on the river would have attract- 
ed my attention.” 

“I hope Mr. Harding will not consider 
himself insulted, if I ask him where he spent 
the afternoon.” 

“I spent it riding,” said Mr. Harding. 

“ Riding ? That is rather indefinite. 
Riding where ? ” 

“Really, Mr. Nowell, I am not accus- 
tomed — ” 

“ Tell him and be done with it, Cyril,” 
interrupted his uncle, sharply. 

“ But it is impossible for me to tell him ! ” 
cried Mr. Harding, indignantly. “ I hardly 
know myself. I felt badly, and I thought a 
ride might help me, so I had a horse saddled 


and set out. I went some considerable dis- 
tance, and was late getting back — that is 
all.” 

“ But you surely know the direction you 
took?” 

“ I took the high-road leading to Ayre, 
but after a while I struck into the woods, 
skirted some fields, rode along the river 
bank, and came back by a large mill. I 
hope that is sufficiently explicit ! ” ' 

“ But did you meet no one ? ” 

“ I met a good many people, but I knew 
none of them. Good Heavens I Mr. Nowell, 
surely I am the last person in the world you 
would connect with such a matter as this ! 
What possible concern could I have with 
Miss Lee? And as for her going on the 
river with me, I’d hardly have been likely 
to ask her, after the manner in which she 
treated my last invitation.” 

“ I do not suspect you in the least, Mr. 
Harding, but you ought to clear yourself 
from even a shadow of doubt.” 

“ What doubt can there be ? Everybody 
knows that for weeks past I have scarcely 
seen Miss Lee. It seems to me that my 
cousin Philip is the only one likely to know 
any thing of her movements, considering, at 
least, that I overheard a declaration of love 
which he made to her the night of the 
ball.” 

Mr. Seyton started and looked up at 
Conway inquiringly. 

“It is true,” his nephew responded to 
that look, “though I did not expect that 
you would hear in this way, or that my 
worthy cousin had been playing the eaves- 
dropper.” His eyes, full of eloquent scorn, 
glanced from the face of Mr. Seyton to the 
smooth visage at his shoulder, and then 
back again. “For a month past,” he con 
tinned, meeting his uncle’s gaze steadily, 
“ I have been aware that you saw and dis- 
countenanced my admiration for your god- 
daughter. I knew, or thought I knew, that 
it would houseless to attempt to obtain your 
approval of my suit; and I felt that you 
might, not unreasonably, condemn my con- 
duct if I persisted in prosecuting it, with the 
full knowledge that her family and you your- 
self would never consent to her marrying me. 
I determined to leave Seyton House, to re- 


96 


MABEL LEE. 


turn to Europe ; and I should have left more 
than a week ago, had not Mabel, one day 
when 1 mentioned my intention to her sister 
and herself, asked, as a personal favor, that 
I would remain until after the hall. Very 
reluctantly I consented to delay my de- 
parture, resolving to guard every word and 
look in my association with her. I would 
willingly have abjured her society altogether, 
but it was impossible to do this without 
exciting her own wonder and the remark 
of others. Therefore, I could only avoid 
it partially. But I adhered strictly to my 
resolution, until the night of the ball. On 
that evening I met her in the belief that I 
saw her for the last time, for I designed 
leaving the next day, and meant to take no 
formal farewell of her,” he paused a moment, 
and his hitherto pale cheek flushed crimson. 
“ The excitement of the hour ” — he went 
on hurriedly — “ the thought of the approach- 
ing separation — overcame my self-control. 
I was wrong — that I acknowledge, sir. 
But, before you condemn me utterly, re- 
member what the temptation was, and how 
long I had resisted it.” 

Mr. Seyton had listened with evident 
emotion while his nephew spoke. To his 
ear, at least, the recital, both in manner 
and matter, had in it the ring of truth. 
And, “thought, quick-winged as lightning,” 
fllled in the bare outline sketched by Con- 
way of the struggle maintained with a 
temptation the strength of which he, of all 
men, could best understand. The memory 
of his own love for one who was the pro- 
totype of Mabel, came so vividly upon him, 
that he was obliged to steady his voice for 
a moment before answering. 

“Yes, you were wrong,” he said, gently; 
“ and a man who himself has never strug- 
gled with and been conquered by passion, 
might condemn yon. I am not that man. 
I forgive you freely.” 

He extended his hand, and pressed warm- 
ly the one which so eagerly grasped his own. 
Conway was deeply affected by his uncle’s 
generous trust and sympathy, and his voice 
faltered a little as he continued : 

“I ought to have told you at once of 
this, and so I intended. But one trifling 
circumstance after another prevented my 


speaking to you in private, until just before 
Mr. Blake came in. At the moment that he 
entered the library I was about to tell you.” 

“I recollect,” said Mr. Seyton, “your 
asking if I would give you my attention, as 
you had something to say to me, and I re- 
member being struck by your manner. 
This, then, was the communication you 
were about to make ? ” 

“ It was. I — ” 

He stopped. The color, which had a 
moment before rushed to his face, as quick- 
ly disappeared. A sudden faint sickness 
came over him, objects grew dim before his 
sight, and he hastily sat down. He had not 
tasted food for twenty-four hours, but it 
was not physical exhaustion which thus af- 
fected him. The soft summer air, entering 
the room through the windows, bore with 
it a sound that caused all of the group of 
men, even the solemnly phlegmatic Mr. 
Harding, to shudder involuntarily. Mr. 
Seyton bent his head forward, and covered 
his eyes with one hand, while the haggard 
face of Nowell became, if possible, more 
rigid and colorless than before. Dulled by 
distance, but yet perfectly distinct, and bit- 
terly significant to the ear, came the report 
of a heavy volley of musketry. At the 
earliest dawn, crowds of the town and coun- 
try people of Ayre and its vicinity, had 
gathered along the bank of the river, drag- 
ging it all the way from Mrs. Lee’s landing 
to the island — a distance of more than a 
mile — but to no purpose. Something over 
thirty-six hours having elapsed since the 
time at which it was supposed that Mabel 
might have been drowned, they were now 
firing into the stream, to the end that the 
vibration of the water, following the concus- 
sion so produced, might cause the body to 
rise to the surface. As Ayre did not pos- 
sess even a single field-piece, volleys of 
musketry were substituted for the boom of 
cannon, but these volleys were so heavy 
that, the day being unusually still, they 
were distinctly audible at Seyton House. 

Nowell was the first to recover himself, 
and there was a tone less of harshness in his 
voice as he said, “We will go and examine 
the boat ! ” He did not believe that Mabel 
was drowned — indeed, he scoffed at the idea ; 


UNDER SUSPICION. 


97 


and would not have hesitated a moment 
to stake liis own life on the opposite opin- 
ion ; he was mentally anathematizing the 
peo[)le who were, he considered, “ making 
fools of themselves,” by prosecuting their 
search for her body, as he led the way to 
where the boat was made fast — but yet that 
sullen boom, boom, now recurring at short 
intervals, realized to him with fresh inten- 
sity the terrible fact that Mabel was missing^ 
and seemed to his heart, though not to his 
mind, like volleys over her grave. 


CHAPTER XYII. 

UNDEE SUSPICION. 

They found the boat moored at the foot 
of the bluff, where the servants who were 
called up said it had been ever since the 
ball, and that after that night it had not, to 
their knowledge, been used until Mr. Con- 
way went to Ayre on the morning of the 
second day. 

“You see as how we was all monstous 
tired, sir,” said Austin, “and pretty nearly 
everybody got enough of rowin’ the night be- 
fore. I’d take my Bible oath on it that none 
of the white folks touched her, sir ; and I’m 
still more sartain that none of the black ones 
did.” 

“ You are perfectly sure of this? ” 

“ As sure as if it was the last word I 
ever spoke, sir.” 

“ I hope you are satisfied, Nowell,” said 
Mr. Seyton, wearily. 

“ No, sir! I shall never be satisfied un- 
til I have laid open the whole devilish plot,” 
Nowell answered. — “Mr. Ainslie, the boat 
might have been entered here, and, by keep- 
ing close along the bank under the willows, 
have effectually eluded your observation 
from the terrace.” 

“Perhaps so,” said Ainslie, “for I con- 
fess I paid very little attention to the river, 
or to any tiling else, for that matter, on the 
afternoon in question.” 

“ Come, Blake,” said Nowell, abruptly, 
“ we are wasting time. We will take the 
boat and go at once to Ayre — ” 

He ceased speaking, and stood still in the 

7 


act of stepping into the boat, for at this mo- 
ment a breathless servant came running up. 

“ Please, sir, there’s some gentlemen to 
see you,” he panted, addressing his master; 
“and they say as how they’ve got some 
pa’tic’lar news for you.” 

News ! What a sharp pang — half of 
hope, half of fear — went through the hearts 
of three at least of the group of men ! They 
looked at each other for one in?itant, saw 
the same thought flash into the eyes of each, 
and turned swiftly and silently toward the 
house. The three others followed ; the 
three whose thoughts were known only to 
themselves and to God — and it chanced that 
Mr. Harding walked alone, while Ainslie 
and Conway brought up the rear together. 

“ Phil,” said the former, after a mo- 
ment’s silence, “ I detest half-confidences. 
You never told me about any declaration ; 
on the contrary, you expressly said that you 
had no intention of making one.” 

“No, I did not tell you,” Conway an- 
swered, “ principally because I saw the folly 
of it so plainly that I did not care to hear 
an echo of my own thoughts from you. Be- 
sides, I had not time. It was all so unex- 
pected. I committed myself before I knew 
what I was about, the other night, and then 
— but what is the good of talking of it ? I 
never knew how dear she was to me until 
now — now, when I cannot tell whether she 
is dead or alive, but when I would give up 
every hope of fortune, and live to the end of 
my existence a slave and a drudge, only to 
see her beside me again 1 ” 

Ainslie looked at him intently — looked 
at him, as it seemed, a little curiously. “I 
think you mean it — for the time,” he said, 
after a moment. 

“I mean it for any time, and all time,” 
answered the other. “ And I only wish I 
might be taken at my word. You should 
never hear me complain if I had to hew 
wood or draw water for my daily food. 
And yet these miserable fools really suspect 
me of having made away with her.” 

“ I wonder what they suppose your ob- 
ject to have been ? ” 

“ The devil only knows ! I suppose, in 
the first place, they pitched upon me as a 
subject of suspicion, because of their great 


98 


MABEL LEE. 


good-will toward me. Though,” he added, 
with gloomy indifference, “ that lawyer 
made out a pretty strong case against me, if 
I had not been able to prove an alibi. I 
don’t blame him for suspecting me under 
such circumstances, but I do think he is a 
fool not to be convinced of his mistake, af- 
ter all that he has heard.” 

“He is blinded by jealousy. There is 
some excuse for him in that fact. How, 
Phil, don’t let his example infect you. 
Don’t lose your head and your temper, as 
you came very near doing a while ago. 
Keep cool, whatever they say. Their accu- 
sations can do you no harm in the end ; and 
Howell, as Miss Lee’s cousin, has a claim on 
your forbearance. As to that fellow Blake, 
not being a gentleman, he is beneath your 
resentment.” 

“ Yes,” said Conway, listlessly. “ Ah ! ” 
he cried, the moment after, with an energy 
and passion so new to him that his friend 
was quite startled — “ ah ! I am not think- 
ing of their preposterous accusation, but of 
her! Ralph, tell me what you think?” he 
went on in a tone of great agitation. “ You 
do not believe it possible, do you, that she 
could have been — could have fallen into the 
river? ” 

Ainslie hesitated. 

“ It is hard to say,” he replied at last, 
“but I — am inclined to think so.” 

“ I do not, I cannot believe it,” said 
Conway, passionately. “I go with Howell 
that far. I think that she has been ab- 
ducted ! ” and he glanced with a dark frown 
at Harding, who was just disappearing 
through the library-door, a little in advance 
of them. 

Ainslie shook his head. “He may be 
knave enough, but I doubt if he has nerve 
enough, for such a business.” 

“We shall seel I am determined to 
find her, and I think Howell is not less so. 
Between us, we shall succeed, sooner or 
later.” 

Ainslie had no time to reply, for at that 
moment they entered the library, where 
quite a number of gentlemen were assem- 
bled. Governor Eston was speaking. 

“ The man to whom I allude,” he said, 
•‘an entirely honest and respectable man, 


named Jacob Stone, declares, and is willing 
to testify on oath, that, as he was coming 
home in his boat shortly before sunset, on 
Thursday afternoon, he passed a skiff con- 
taining Mabel Lee and a man whose face he 
did not see, but whose figure reminded him 
very much of — ” 

He paused suddenly on perceiving Con- 
way in the open door before him ; and, as 
he paused, the latter stepped forward. 

“ Finish your sentence, sir, I beg,” he 
said. “ Of whom did the figure remind 
him?” 

The governor bowed with very stately 
but rather stiff courtesy. 

“I regret to say,” he answered, “that 
it was of yourself, Mr. Conway.” 

“And he is willing to testify that, on 
oath ? ” ‘ 

“Ho; he expressly says that he is cer- 
tain only of Mabel’s identity. He did not 
catch even a glimpse of the face of her com- 
panion, but ho took it for granted that it 
was yourself. And he remarked, what has 
often struck others, that a great similarity 
exists in the figures of you three gent.e- 
men.” 

“And is he certain that it was one of 
them? ” asked Mr. Howell. 

The governor hesitated before replying, 
but after a while he spoke slowly : 

“Yes,” he said. “ He is absolutely cer- 
tain that it was one of them.” 

“In what direction was the boat going? 
Where did he pass them ? ” asked Mr. Sey- 
ton ? “ It seems to me that is of far more 

importance that any thing else.” 

“ They were coming in this direction, 
and he passed them a short distance below 
Morford’s Landing. It is very terrible and 
very strange, Mr. Seyton — we scarcely 
know what to think. Ayre is more excited 
than I ever remember it to have been ; and 
the whole town is busily engaged in drag- 
ging the river. But this information entire- 
ly sets at rest the question of her having 
been drowned.” 

“ It sets at rest the question of acciden- 
tal drowning,” said one of the other gentle- 
men, “ but, if she was murdered, her body 
would most probably have been thrown into 
the river,” 


UNDER SUSPICION. 


99 


“Pray, my good sir, spare us,” said the 
governor quickly, for he saw how white 
and shuddering Mr. Seyton looked, as he 
sat down in his chair. “ I hope all may yet 
be well, but — Mr. Nowell, are you leaving ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Nowell, as he took up his 
hat, and turned toward the door. “ I am 
going to Morford’s Landing. — Good-morn- 
ing, Mr. Seyton. I will see you soon again. 
— Good-morning, gentlemen.” 

“Mr. Ainslie,” said Mr. Blake, “are you 
coming with me ? — or is it you, Mr. Hard- 
ing?” 

“ Does not Mr. Conway take any part in 
the search?” asked the governor, signifi- 
cantly, as his glance turned on Conway, 
who stood apart from the Vest. 

“ He_was in the saddle all night,” began 
Ainslie ; but, before he could say more, Con- 
way advanced into the centre of the room, 
until he stood beside Mr. Sey ton’s chair. 
Then, facing the entire group, he spoke for 
himself : 

“ I understand the suspicion with which 
you all regard me,” he said, “ and the man- 
ner in which you have judged and con- 
demned me while in profound ignorance of 
any thing save the fact that Miss Lee has 
disappeared. Why this is so, only your- 
selves can tell. Mr. Nowell had indped 
strung together a somewhat plausible-look- 
ing array of ‘ suspicious circumstances,’ but 
I proved to him, in a manner to satisfy any 
reasonable mind, that I was here in this 
very room during the whole of the after- 
noon upon which Miss Lee disappeared. 
Moreover, I can. prove, by my cousin, Mr. 
Harding, who has already done me the fa- 
vor to testify to the fact” — he could not 
quite repress an intonation of sarcasm in his 
voice — “that I proposed to and was ac- 
cepted by Miss Mabel Lee on the night of 
the ball. How any sane man could suspect 
me of abducting or murdering the woman 
W'ho was my affianced wife, it passes my 
powers of imagination to conceive. That — ” 

“ Excuse me,” interrupted Mr. Harding, 
at this point, to the surprise of Conway 
himself, and that of his whole audience — 
‘excuse me, Philip, if I correct what is no 
doubt an inadvertent mistake on your part, 
but which I feel it right to rectify. I did not 


testify to the fact of your having proposed 
to and been accepted by Miss Mabel Lee, 
but only to your having made a declaration 
of love to her. It was by the merest chance 
thaPI overheard this declaration, and I hur- 
ried away without waiting to hear her re- 
ply. I was looking for her to return her 
fan, which had come into my possession by 
accident, but when I heard your — that is, 
the subject of your — conversation, I did not 
wish to intrude my presence upon you, and 
so I retired at once.” 

“ Ah, I comprehend I ” said Conway, 
scornfully. “You mean to insinuate that, 
though I offered myself, I was not ac- 
cepted ? ” 

“No,” answered Mr. Harding, hastily, 
growing very red, and speaking with some 
indignation — “ no ; I mean to insinuate no 
such thing ! I only corrected the mistake 
and made the explanation, because you 
spoke as if — as if you thought my hearing 
the conversation between Miss Lee and 
yourself was intentional.” 

Conway did not reply to this speech, but, 
taking out a russian-leather pocket-book, 
he extracted thence a small folded paper, 
and addressed Mr. Seyton. “Here is tlie 
note which Anderson brought to me on 
Thursday afternoon. Will you read it, sir, 
and satisfy whomsoever it may concern, 
whether Miss Lee was engaged to me or 
not?” 

Mr. Seyton took the note, but, before he 
had time to read it, he was interrupted by 
the entrance of Anderson, who, hastily ap- 
proaching him, said : 

“ Mr. Martin’s out here, sir, and wants 
to see you. I told him you was busy and 
couldn’t be disturbed, but he says he’s got 
something to tell you, and, if you can’t see 
him, will Mr. Blake come there directly ? ” 

“Bring him in at once,” said Mr. Sey- 
ton, with mingled eagerness and apprehen- 
sion. And he laid the paper which Conway 
had given him on the table at his side. 

Anderson returned to the open door, 
and ushered in the overseer, who was wait- 
ing just outside, it appeared. A rough but 
good-natured looking man, with honest face 
and open manner, he took off his hat as he 
advanced into the apartment, nodded short- 


100 


MABEL LEE. 


ly to the company in general, and more re- 
spectfully to Mr. Seyton and Mr. Blake, his 
eyes resting on the former for an instant 
with an expression of compassionate wonder 
at his altered appearance, and then, turning 
to Blake : 

“ You know the flat-boat that was lost 
the night of the ball, Mr. Blake? ” 

Blake nodded. 

“Well, it’s found; and this here was 
found in it — stuck fast to the bottom, in 
some wet mud.” 

He extended, not to Blake, but to Mr. 
Seyton, what the latter took to be a piece 
of wet clay-soiled black lace, crushed to- 
gether into an unsightly lump, until he had 
it in his hand, when he saw that it was a 
half-length glove of the kind then univer- 
sally worn in summer by ladies. Gazing at 
it with a shudder, unable and unwilling to 
identify it as Mabel’s, he turned to Conway, 
aud said in a low tone, “ Look at it, and see 
if you think it is hers.” 

Conway shuddered, too, as he received 
it from his uncle’s outstretched hand. He 
examined it closely, but, so far as the glove 
itself was concerned, there was nothing by 
which he could identify it. Mabel wore 
such gloves, he knew, but so did every lady 
of his acquaintance. Mechanically, he en- 
deavored to straighten it out, the better to 
judge of its size and shape, and while doing 
so he found that it enclosed some foreign 
substance, to which it was pasted firmly by 
the half-dry mud. Crumbling this mud off, 
he started at the sight of a note — his own 
note, as he divined by instinct at the very 
first glimpse. He extricated it with some 
difficulty from the inside of tlie glove, 
opened it, gave one look at the blurred but 
perfectly legible writing, and placed it in 
l)is uncle’s hand. “ The glove is hers,” he 
said. “ See ! That is my note, written to 
her on Thursday.” He pointed to the date, 
which Mr. Sejton read, and then spoke 
eagerly to the overseer. 

“ When and where was the boat found ? ” 
he exclaimed. 

“ Why, you see, sir, the boat was missin’ 
a Thursday mornin’, the day after the ball, 
and as she’s a right new boat that Mr. Blake 
had had built after a notion of his own, and 


so light that two hands can manage her 
easy, though she’s big, why, he didn’t like 
the loss of her ; and he spoke pretty sharp 
when I reported it to him, and said it was 
keerlessness on my part not to ov looked 
after things better, for that no doubt the 
hands had got out of her in a hurry, and 
mebbe not fastened her at all, or — ” 

“ But where was she found ? ” inter- 
rupted Mr. Seyton, who, having listened 
very impatiently so far to this irrelevant 
tirade, could contain himself no longer. 
From the force of habit, he looked up at 
Blake, as much as to say, “ Make him come 
to the point ! ” To which adjuration Blake 
replied by a slight negative motion of the 
head, signifying, “ Let him tell his story his 
own way, or he’ll never get to the end of 
it.” And the man, unconscious of this by- 
play, replied : 

“ I’ll come to that presently, sir. Well, 
Mr. Blake he thought she hadn’t bin fast- 
ened proper. He said all the niggers was 
on their heads last night, and that I must a 
bin on mine too, not to a noticed what they 
was about, and that he’d no doubt they’d 
just flung the chain round the stake, with- 
out pretendin’ to fasten it into the staple. 

I didn’t think so, because Old Ike and Big 
Jiuk was the boat-hands, and there ain’t two 
better or more dependable boys on the 
whole plantation, and they said they hitched 
her up just as usual. Well, when I heered 
yesterday mornin’ that Miss Mabel was 
missin’, I couldn’t help thinkin’ that mebbe 
her bein’ gone, and the boat’s bein’ gone, 
had somethin’ to do with one another ; and 
I sent Old Ike and Big Jim down the river 
in a canoe yesterday evenin’ late, to Mr. 
Dawson’s plantation, to make inquiries 
whether anybody there had seed or heered 
of the boat’s goin’ by there. The boys 
hadn’t got half-way to Mr. Dawson’s be- 
fore they met Andy Campbell on his raft, 
cornin’ up for a load of timber, and he had 
the flat towen on behind him, and said he 
had picked her up away down the river, 
and knowed her, and was bringin’ her home 
as he passed goin’ up the river. Well, it 
was after dark when Old Ike and Big Jim 
got back, and I wasn’t at home, and didn’t 
git home this mornin’ till after breakfast, 


UNDER SUSPICION. 


101 


for I was sconriu’ the country all night with 
a party of hands, lookin’ for some trace of 
Miss Mahel. When I did git home, I found 
the boys waitin’ for me; and when I heered 
their story I was a most of Mr. Blake’s way 
of thinkin’, that the flat had got loose and 
floated off* down the stream; hut I thought 
I’d go and take a look at her, and you see I 
found that in her” — he pointed to the glove 
— “and, what’s more, there’s bin people and 
horses, too, in her sence we used her our- 
selves, Wednesday night, because it was 
very dry weather then, and the boat was as 
clean as slie could be, and there was nothin’ 
to dirty her. And now she’s full of mud, 
and there’s the plain tracks of wheels and 
horses’ feet — yea, and men’s feet, too! And 
it’s my opinion,” he concluded, gravely, 
“ that Miss Mabel was carried oflP down the 
river in that boat.” 

Most of the gentlemen shook their heads 
at this idea, and Governor Eston explained 
to the man that it was impossible, because 
of the story of Jacob Stone, who was posi- 
tive that he had seen Mabel in a skiff*, 
adding, “You know he is not the sort of 
man to tell a cock-and-bull story, or to be 
mistaken in what he so positively says. For 
iny part, I am just as firmly convinced that 
she was in the skiff*, as if I had seen her 
myself.” 

“I don’t dispute it,” returned Martin. 
“ Stone’s not the man to tell a lie, one way 
or another, I know. All I say is, she might 
a bin in the skiflf when he saw her, and she 
might a bin in the flat afterward. And I’d 
like to know, governor, hoAV you’d account 
for her glove bein’ in the flat, if she hadn’t 
bin in it herself? ” 

“ That I can’t account for,” said the 
governor. “ That is strange, certainly. — You 
are sure it is her glove, Seyton ? ” 

For answer, Mr. Seyton held out to his 
inspection the back of the note upon which 
the address, 

“ Miss Mabel Lee, 

“ Ayre,” 

was legible at a glance. 

“ And Mr. Conway recognizes this as a 
note written by himself? ” asked the gov- 
ernor, in a very non-committal tone. 

Mr. Seyton turned the other side, and | 


folding it back, so that the signature and 
date were exposed, he again held it out for 
the inspection of all who were inclined to 
examine it. Then he put it on the table 
beside the one already there, rose from his 
seat, placed his hand on Conway’s shoul- 
der, and, so standing, addressed the com- 
pany. 

“Before we proceed further with the 
subject of the boat, I must ask you, gentle- 
men, to give me your attention while I per- 
form an act of justice and of duty — that of 
denouncing, as not only preposterous, but as 
infamous — infamous in the highest degree — 
the suspicion which Mr. Nowell and Mr. 
Blake have thought fit to express, and, I 
believe, to disseminate, concerning my 
nephew I — a suspicion that he was the ab- 
ductor of my goddaughter ! As some cir- 
cumstances mentioned by Nowell are calcu- 
lated, upon a superficial view, to mislead 
opinion, I will, with your permission, go 
over the explanation and the proofs Avhich 
I gave to Mr. Nowell, just before your ar- 
rival, as to the fact of my nephew’s presence 
in this house during the Avhole of Thursday 
afternoon and evening.” He recapitulated 
the explanation to which he alluded — his 
own veto of the engagement made by Con- 
way and Mabel to go boating ; Anderson’s 
account of the delivery of Conway’s note 
and Mabel’s answer ; his own and the ser- 
vant’s perfect recollection of the time at 
which the different events of the afternoon 
transpired. “ Here are the two notes in 
question,” he continued. “ I do not know 
whether Anderson can recognize this, in its 
present condition ” — he put his finger down 
upon the discolored and rumpled one — “ but 
the other he cannot mistake, as it is not 
written on ordinary note-paper, but on the 
fly-leaf torn from a book. — Ring the bell, if 
you please, Cyril.” 

Mr. Harding obeyed. 

“Anderson,” said his master, when the 
man came in, “I want you to repeat to 
these gentlemen what you were telling us 
a while ago about your errand to Ayre, on 
Thursday afternoon. I think you said you 
heard the town-clock strike six while you 
were at Mrs. Lee’s ? ” 

“Yes, sir;” and he proceeded to give 


102 


MABEL LEE. 


a substantial repetition of tv^hat he had said 
before. 

“ Look at these notes,” said Mr. Seyton. 
“ Are they the ones you carried that day ? ” 

“That is Miss Mabel’s, sir,” replied 
Anderson, without hesitation. “The other 
looks like Mass Phil’s, only it’s so dirty. 
Will you let me see it a minute, sir, and I 
cun tell you? If it’s the one I carried that 
day, it’s got some blood on one corner. As 
I was riding along, trimming a switch, I cut 
my finger, and it bled a good deal, off and 
on, all the evening, and some of the blood 
got on both of the notes.” 

Mr. Seyton had given him the note, and 
he was fumbling with it as he spoke, and he 
now pointed to a dull-red stain on the cor- 
ner, that might have passed for a streak of 
clay a little darker than that which stained 
the whole paper, but which, on close scru- 
tiny, was obviously blood. “ Here is the 
mark, you see, sir. It’s Mass Phil’s note.” 

“Very well. That is all I want,” said 
Mr. Seyton. 

“I have nothing more to say,” he re- 
sumed, when the servant had left the room. 
“ iVny reasonable man must admit that I am 
right in characterizing the suspicion which 
has been suggested as oncQ preposterous 
and infamous. If there are men so blinded 
by jealousy, or besotted in prejudice ” — he 
looked significantly toward Blake — “ as to 
entertain the insane idea that my nephew 
was in any wise connected with the dis- 
appearance of his affianced wife — such these 
documents (he pointed to the notes) prove 
my goddaughter to have been — why, I trust 
that both he and myself can support the 
knowledge of their ill opinion without con- 
cern, regarding it with the contempt which 
alone it deserves. 

“ Now,” he proceeded, sitting down, 
and speaking in a different tone, “how 
about this boat? I confess that the more I 
think of it, the more do I incline to Martin’s 
opinion.” He looked around. 

An animated discussion followed. Every- 
body was ready to admit that the presence 
of Mabel’s glove in the boat seemed strong 
evidence of her having been in it herself. 
“ But not by any means conclusive proof of 
the fact,” said Mr. Bradford. “The glove 


may have been put there purposely, to mis- 
lead inquiry, by directing it in a wrong chan- 
nel. One thing, however, is certain. The 
disappearance of the boat was a preliminary 
to the abduction of Miss Lee, but whether 
used for the purpose and abandoned when 
no longer needed, in the expectation that 
the current would carry it out of reach of 
discovery ; or whether it was intentionally 
left where it would be found, with her glove 
in it as a decoy for suspicion, seems to me a 
matter of' doubt. It will be only prudent 
to make every effort to discover traces, and 
obtain information all along the river, from 
here down to the spot where the boat was 
found, but, at the same time, we must not 
relax in pursuing the search in all other 
directions as vigorously as possible.” 

“It seems to me,” said another one of 
the gentlemen, “ that it will be the easiest 
thing in the world to find out all about the 
boat. She must have been seen by some- 
body on her way down the river. For fifty 
miles down from here, there is not a stretch 
of three miles not overlooked by some plan- 
tation or residence. It is impossible that 
a boat of that size, or indeed any size, 
whether occupied or empty, should have 
escaped notice the whole way.” 

“ That’s if she went down in the day- 
time,” said Martin, with stubborn convic- 
tion of the corectness of his own surmise; 

“ but my notion is that she went down in 
the night. 

“ You mean that you think Miss Lee 
was carried down the river in this boat at 
night? ” asked Governor Eston. 

“That’s what I think, gov’nor.” 

“But Miss Lee did not disappear until 
Thursday afternoon, late, while the boat 
was missing on Thursday morning? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then, what do you suppose became of 
the boat all day Thursday? She must have 
been on the river somewhere, and not very 
far off, either, if she were to be used as you 
think that night. Now, if she had been on » 
the river, she would certainly have been seen, 
and we should have heard of it before this 
time ? ” 

“She mought a bin run up into some 
creek that day. There’s plenty of ’em, you 


vox POPULI. 


103 


know, on botli sides o’ the river. There’s 
Caney Creek right below here, where she 
could a laid all day without any diffikilty. 
It twists about so, that there’s no seein’ a 
hundred yards ahead any place on it — and 
it’s so swampy along the banks that nobody 
ever goes a nigh it. She could a bin hid 
there handy enough, and come out after it 
was dark, and come up the river mebbe, to 
meet the skiff that Stone saw.” 

This suggestion seemed so reasonable, 
that a majority of the company at once 
adopted the overseer’s opinion, and were 
eager to set out on this new track of dis- 
covery. Some were still doubtful, and in- 
sisted on prosecuting the search in other 
directions. A more organized plan than 
that which had been pursued up to this 
time was adopted, the gentlemen present 
being formed into different parties, a speci- 
fied locality allotted to each, and, agreeing 
upon Seyton House as the point of rendez- 
vous to which all intelligence was to be 
brought as speedily as possible, they sepa- 
rated. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

vox POPULI. 

Aftee this, the days went by slowly 
and heavily, each one deepening the gloom 
and the mystery which hung over the fate 
of the missing girl. By degrees the activity 
of the search was discontinued, for no further 
trace was discovered, and a sort of hopeless 
apathy began to settle over the searchers. 
It was not from weariness or loss of interest, 
but simply because they had been met by 
blank failure in every direction, and because 
discouragement follows failure, as inevita- 
bly and as naturally as night follows day. 
They would have made any effort, they 
would have hesitated at no sacrifice, to re- 
cover her, but when all efforts and all sacri- 
fices proved utterly vain, when the fourth 
week of her absence had gone over, and 
they had not made the least advance toward 
discovery, it was only natural that the peo- 
ple at large — the people that were not bound 
to her by any ties of kindred or peculiar 


affection — should have lost heart, and begun 
to think those right who had, from the first, 
asserted a steady belief of her death. It 
was true that the question of accidental 
drowning had been entirely set at rest, and 
that no one in his senses could have 
doubted the testimony of Jacob Stone, or 
the evidence of the glove which had been 
found in the flat-boat ; but there remained 
the terrible surmise of violent death, and 
the morbid mind of the populace — ever 
ready to receive, and, if necessary, to invent 
horror for itself — caught at the surmise 
with avidity. The intelligent portion of 
the community clung to a belief in her ab- 
duction, and could not see that the evidence 
tended in any other direction, but the mass 
drew back from the search in sullen despair, 
and, looking at each other, said, “ She has 
been murdered ! ” 

It is almost unnecessary to say that her 
own family and friends opposed this belief 
with steady incredulity ; clung, as people in 
their positions will cling, to the vaguest 
shadows of life, and shut their ears abso- 
lutely to the tragic solution of the mystery. 
Among them Nowell stood chief — a very 
bulwark of strength on which to lean. But 
for his indomitable belief that Mabel was 
living, and his indomitable resolution to find 
her, every one else might have resigned 
himself, through sheer despair, to a con- 
viction of her death. As it was, his pro- 
found skepticism and stern determination — 
a determination that never faltered for an 
instant — affected them as any strongly- 
rooted opinion must always affect the minds 
of others. They could not doubt, they 
could not sink down in absolute hopeless- 
ness, while he held his steady Avay, without 
a shadow of change or turning. “I will 
find her ! ” lie had said on the first day of 
her disappearance, and he said it now with a 
resolution, if any thing, deeper than before, 
when days had lengthened into weeks, and 
no gleam of success had cheered him. It 
was not singular that this belief infected 
every one around him, that it preserved Mr. 
Seyton from absolute despair, that it kept 
even Mrs. Lee up to some faint point of 
hope, and that it influenced Constance until 
she thought with his thoughts and accepted 


104 


MABEL LEE. 


all Ills conclusions, save only the one con- 
clusion i lat led him to a conviction of Con- 
way’s g;i'tt. On that point she remained 
firm, and in all Ayre her hand was the only 
one cuthrld to the young man against whom 
there roso a deep and ever-growing murmur 
of execration. For it was only natural that 
Ayre should adopt Nowell’s opinion on the 
subject, and, looking about for an object of 
suspicion, should select the man whom Ma- 
bel’s nearest connection was well known to 
have accused of a share at least in her dis- 
appearance. Perhaps, if he had borne any 
other name, they might have qualified their 
judgment a little; might have given him at 
least the benefit of a doubt; but a Con- 
way — ! His patronymic in itself con- 
demned him past hope. 

Yet it would be hard to say how little 
this opinion or this indignation mattered to 
the object of it — how little he regarded or 
even heard the ominous murmur of wrath- 
ful feeling daily growing stronger and 
deeper around him. He was still at Seyton 
House — waiting, hoping, looking for some 
clew, but, up to this time, waiting, hoping, 
looking, vainly. The other two gentlemen 
were gone. Mr. Harding took his depart- 
ure as soon as he decently could, for his 
uncle’s resolution in favor of Conway had 
not been rescinded, as he had perhaps ex- 
pected, and, divested of any mercenary in- 
terest, Seyton House had become but a dull 
abode. He left with what show of dignity 
he could muster, and not long after Ainslie 
was reluctantly compelled to follow his ex- 
ample, having remained as long, or perhaps 
a little longer, than his convenience war- 
ranted. He had proved indefatigable in 
the search; but at last, like most of the 
rest, he seemed to lose heart. “ My dear 
boy, be sure and summon me, if there is 
any emergency in which I can be of ser- 
vice,” he said, when he was taking leave ; 
but Conway saw that he thought such an 
emergency little likely to arise. So he, too, 
left the saddened house behind him, and, 
after the manner of human nature, set his 
face toward brighter scenes. Thus left 
alone — face to face with his position and its 
strange responsibilities — Conway had little 
beside his own stout heart on which to lean. 


His uncle was broken down in mind as well 
as body, and unable to afford him any as- 
sistance, save the material one of placing 
unlimited means at his command; and, be- 
sides Constance, there was not a single face 
which did not meet him with cold distrust 
or dark suspicion. The sins of the fathers 
are visited upon the children, by men as 
well as by God, and in nothing is this great 
law more conspicuously shown forth than 
in the matter of name and reputation. Who 
has not felt that the best earthly heritage 
which a man can leave his children, is the 
heritage of a good name? — and who, also, 
has not felt (God help them, if it was in 
their own person !) that the most bitter and 
most clinging of all shame is that which 
comes by inheritance? It was this les- 
son which Mabel’s outraged townspeople 
taught Conway now. “ Do men gather 
grapes of thorns or figs of thistles?” the 
religious-minded among them were ready to 
quote on all occasions ; while every discred- 
itable story which had ever been told of the 
father was revived, exaggerated, and used 
against the son. As a general thing, there 
is a sort of rough justice in this mode of 
treatment — it is well that men should be 
made to feel that the consequences of wrong- 
doing end not with themselves, that the few 
should suffer for the benefit of the many — 
but there was no justice at all in the form 
of it thus displayed ; and so Conway bitter- 
ly felt. Feeling this, he bore himself tow- 
ard his aggressors with a proud contempt, 
which they were quick enough to resent, 
quick enough to take hold of as fuel for the 
already rising flame — and so it was that all 
of a sudden he found his personal safety 
threatened. 

“I must warn that fellow,” said Gov- 
ernor Eston one day, as he stood on a street- 
corner with, several friends, and saw Con- 
way ride past. “The people are at fever- 
heat, and he will be mobbed, if he keeps on 
coming here in this style.” 

“ Why need you interfere ? ” asked one 
of the others. “ It is his own lookout, I am 
sure — the people express their sentiments 
plainly enough — and, for my part, I would 
not give him a warning to save him from 
the devil himself 1 ” 


vox POPULI. 


103 


“ Law and order are to be considered,” 
said the governor, who a governor, 

and therefore thought much of these things. 
“ You don’t suppose I am thinking of him — 
confound him ! I confess, I should dislike 
any thing of the sort, on Mr. Seyton’s ac- 
count, though. lie is pitiably broken down, 
and he clings to this fellow yet, you know.” 

“ So I suppose ; but can you conceive 
how it is? Mr. Seyton used to be a man 
of some sense.” 

“I don’t pretend to account for the 
blindness of partiality,” said the governor, 
shrugging his shoulders. And then he went 
off to warn Conway that for the present he 
would do well to avoid the vicinity of Ay re. 

He had not gone very far before he en- 
countered his son, who was leisurely stroll- 
ing along in an opposite direction. 

“ Have you met Conway anywhere, 
Frank ? ” the governor asked. “ I saw him 
pass a moment ago, and I want to speak to 
him.” 

“ I saw him pass, too,” said young Eston, 
carelessly, “ but I took the best possible 
care not to look at him, since I had no de- 
sire to speak to him. There were three or 
four boys hooting after him; perhaps if you 
would ask some of them, they could tell you 
his whereabouts.” 

“ What boys ? ” asked his father, frown- 
ing slightly. 

“Indeed, that is more than I can tell 
you — some nondescript ragamuffins or other. 
But it is a pity somebody does not warn 
him — Conway I mean — that xiyre is not the 
safest place in the world for him just now. 
They talk very suspiciously up-street.” 

“Who talks?” 

“Almost everybody among the idlers, 
and working-men, and people of that ilk. 
Jim Barker was haranguing a small crowd 
at the street-corner a while ago.” 

“ I’ll answer for him,” said the gov- 
ernor, more assured than ever that it was 
high time to warn off the reckless young 
stranger who rode thus boldly into the lion’s 
mouth. “I rather like his pluck,” thought 
this brave, genial gentleman, who, in truth, 
liked pluck wherever or in whomsoever he 
might discover it ; “ but it won’t do. There’s 
no question of that — it won’t do. He’ll 


certainly find himself in the river some day ; 
and then poor Seyton — Halloa! what’s 
that ? ” 

He had cause enough to know, having, 
spent thirty years in political life, and being 
therefore well acquainted with that peculiar 
sound, half hiss, half groan, by which an 
American mob expresses disapproval, and 
which now suddenly saluted his ears. He 
quickened his steps, and, turning a corner 
of a street, came full in view of a sight he 
had half expected. 

It chanced that some little time before 
Conway had alighted in front of a drug- 
store, and entered to make some small pur- 
chases. He did not stay very long, but the 
fact of his presence sufficed to gather quite 
a knot of boys on the pavement opposite, 
who amused themselves by interchanging 
comments and remarks in loud tones with 
the loungers on the other side of the street. 

“ I say, Tom,” shouted one of the bat- 
talion, to an ally in the door, “ you better 
let Mr. Grinders know who's in his store. 
He might like to put Miss Ellen under lock 
and key. She’ll be apt to turn up .missing 
if he don’t.” 

“ P’raps he had better look out him- 
self, too,” suggested another. “ ’Long as 
Ids hand’s in now, the gentleman, mebbe, 
won’t stop with women.” 

“Xo doubt he’s a-buyin’ pisen,” said a 
third. 

“If anybody’s took awful with sudden 
fits to-night, we’ll know what give it to 
’em,” cried a fourth. 

“ Mebbe he means to finish off the fam- 
ily — tell him to be sure -and not forget Mr. 
Howell while he’s about it, Tom,” said num- 
ber one again. 

“Let’s give him a salute when he comes 
out,” cried another. “There he is now! 
Steady, boys. Hiss — s ! ” 

A perfect roar of groans, hisses, and 
cries ensued ; but Conway paid no more 
attention to it than if it had borne no sound 
to his ears. He did not even glance toward 
the small indignants, but quietly unfastened 
his horse’s bridle from the post over which 
it was thrown, and mounted. It was just 
as he did so, just as he settled himself in the 
saddle, that a heavy missile of some descrip- 


106 


MABEL LEE. 


tion whirled past, and, narrowly missing his 
head, grazed his shoulder. And it was at 
this instant — as he wheeled about with a 
riding-whip uplifted in his hand — that Gov- 
ernor Eston came round the corner. 

The matter looked serious enough, for 
several men who had been standing by with 
their hands in their pockets, not exactly 
participating, but only encouraging, the 
boys, now came to the fore with angry 
countenances. 

“None o’ that here,” said one of t’.em, 
a tall, burly giant. “You had better put 
that whip down, and take yourself off, if 
you know what’s good for you. We’ll have 
no murderers threatening our children. 
Take yourself off, and be d — d to you, before 
we pitch you into the river.” 

“Try it,” said Conway, curtly. “You 
insolent scoundrel, stand out of the way 
immediately, or I’ll break this whip over 
your head 1 ” 

“ At him, Jim ! Give it to him ! ” cried 
one or two voices in the rear. 

“ D — n him, let him come off ’en his 
horse,” said Jim, “then I’ll show him. 
It's only a coward what threatens a man on 
foot when he’s on horseback. Yes, it’s only 
a coward.” 

lie had scarcely spoken the last word, 
when the loaded whip-handle descended on 
his head with a force that sent him to the 
ground like a felled ox. Then, in a moment, 
all was tumult and violence. Men who had 
been watching the scene from a distance, 
rushed eagerly forward; those near by 
dashed at Conway fiercely, and for several 
minutes his safety was more than question- 
able. The mad mob spirit had needed onl} 
a spark to set it in a blaze, and, as Governor 
Eston hurried forward, the scene was one 
of the wildest confusion and uproar. Curses 
were freely hurled back and forth, to- 
gether with such pleasant cries as “ Take 
him off!” “Pull him down!” “Knock the 
horse in the head ! ” while all that was to 
be seen was a surging mass of men and 
boys, the rearing, plunging horse in the 
middle, Conway firm as an equestrian statue 
on its back, and the whip still clinched in 
his hand. 

“Whoever touches me gets this!” he 


j said, raising it as he spoke. “ Come on, if 
you dare ! If you are cowards enough to 
attack an unarmed man — come on ! ” 

“ Not half such cowards as you,” cried 
another one of those voices in the rear. 
“We never carried off a woman — or 
drowned her either.” 

“Come out, where I can see you, and 
repeat that!” said Conway, with his eyes 
gleaming like coals of fire. 

But the unknown worthy had no mind 
for this. Indeed, although at least fifty men 
had assembled by this time, they were all 
for the moment held at bay by the rearing 
horse, the uplifted whip, and the defiance 
and courage which the man’s whole attitude 
breathed. If there had been one sign of 
falter, or token of fear in face or figure, his 
fate might have been sealed then and there, 
for the hot Southern blood is not much 
given to reasoning, or to counting conse- 
quences on occasions of this kind ; and it 
had been at fever-heat for many days. But, 
as it was, they followed the notable example 
of the Tuscan chivalry in the ballad — 

“ And those behind cried ‘Forward!’ 

And those before cried ‘ Back 1 ’ ” 

So they were still swaying to and fro, in 
confused irresolution, when Governor Es- 
ton saw his opportunity and took it. 

“What is the meaning of all this?” he 
cried, and his voice — a voice accustomed to 
rise above the roar of popular assemblages 
— rang clearly over the heads of the aston- 
ished crowd. “ Is it Ayre men who are 
insulting an unarmed stranger, in such a 
manner as this ? Shame to you all ! Double 
shame to whoever began the row I Stand 
back, and let me pass. I am an Ayre man, 
and I must apologize for the conduct of my 
townsmen.” 

“ He’s a murderer, gov’nor — you know 
he’s a murderer!” cried several, though 
the majority were silent, and, as there was 
little or no unanimity of purpose, began to 
fall back. 

“How do you dare to say that? ” cried 
the governor, angrily. “You have no right 
to judge any man till the law decides his 
guilt — and the law no more decides Mr. 
Conway’s guilt than it does mine. Stand 
back, I say, and go home.” 


vox POPULI. 


107 


“ He’s knocked all the sense out of Jim 
Barker, any way,” cried one spirit, too 
fierce to give up, though the tide had evi- 
dently turned. “ We can’t stand by and see 
our townsfolk treated like dogs.” 

“ Let them behave like men, then,” re- 
torted the governor. “Jim Barker de- 
served what he got. And as for knocking 
the senses out of him, Mr. Conway would 
have needed to put some in before he could 
have done that.” 

The equivoque was greeted with a shout 
of laughter ; and it was all that was needed 
to disperse the crowd. They fell back at 
once, -deserting the cause of Jim Barker with 
shameful promptitude; and not even ani- 
mated to vengeance when they saw him led 
away by two sympathizing friends, who 
were accustomed to perform the same good 
offices after all convivial occasions in which 
he chanced to participate. 

Conway returned his acknowledgments 
somewhat coldly and stiffly for the timely 
interference that had spared him the neces- 
sity of breaking half a dozen heads instead 
of one. 

“ You owe me no thanks, Mr. Conway,” 
said the governor, a little stiffly in his turn. 
“I hope I am always to be found on the 
side of law and order ; and I would do much 
more than this to spare my old friend Mr. 
Seyton any pain or annoyance. I hope you 
are not hurt? I thought I saw a brickbat 
as I turned the street.” 

“Very probably you did,” answered 
Conway, coolly. “ I don’t remember — Ah, 
yes. I feel it in my shoulder here. The 
rascals have nearly disabled my bridle-arm. 
I wish I had a chance at one or two more of 
them.” 

“You had better he glad you got off as 
well as you did,” said the governor, whose 
distrust began to return as soon as the chiv- 
alric impulse was past. “You made a nar- 
row escape as it was. These people are 
no triflers in affairs of the kind, and I 
saw them do as quick a piece of lynching 
once — ” 

“ I thought you were always to he found 
on the side of law and order, sir.” 

“Yes, to be sure. But in this case, the 
fellow richly deserved it. However, that is 


not to the point. I was about to say, Mr. 
Conway, that if you consult your safety, 
you will, for the present, avoid Ayre. The 
state of popular indignation is so great — ” 

“Avoid Ayre!” said Conway, with a 
dark-red flush overspreading his face. “ Do 
you take V me for a coward as well as a vil- 
lain, sir ? I am obliged to you for your ad- 
vice — I have certainly seen of what your 
townspeople are capable — hut, for all that, I 
have no intention of following it. The only 
thing they force upon me is the one thing ol 
hereafter carrying arms. And you may give 
warning, if you choose, that the first man 
who attempts to lay hands on me seals his 
own death-warrant.” 

“Prudence is better than bravado, Mr. 
Conway.” 

“ And self-respect, in some cases, better 
than either. I shall come to Ayre exactly 
as I have done before — and I should do the 
same if I knew that to-day’s scene would be 
repeated to-morrow. And now, let me*say 
one thing more. I am aware how the peo- 
ple have obtained the suspicion which they 
attach to me. I know that many gentlemen, 
of whom Governor Eston is said to he one, 
freely express a belief in my guilt. There- 
fore I have no disposition to blame the ig- 
norant fools who merely follow the example 
of their betters ; and I am still more unable 
to thank you, sir, for my personal safety, 
when you have inflicted such an injury on 
my character as the one involved in this 
matter. I hope to be able to repay the ob- 
ligation under which you have just placed 
me, but at present I have the honor to wish 
you good-morning.” 

He raised his hat ceremoniously, and, be- 
fore the astonished governor could reply, 
had ridden away, leaving him quite alone in 
the middle of the street. 

“Well, well!” thought that gentleman, 
as he slowly walked back to the pavement, 
“ this is thanks, upon my word, for saving 
his neck ; he is as hot and hasty as gun- 
powder ; but what the deuce is the reason 
that I can’t help liking him ? ” 


108 


MABEL LEE, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A FOEGEET. 

Aftee his abrupt parting with Governor 
Eston, Conway rode on, more chafed and 
heated than he would have liked to ac- 
knowledge, and soon turned from Main 
Street, where the late encounter had oc- 
curred, into the quieter portion of the town 
where Mrs. Lee lived. His way to her 
house led him past the Catholic church, and 
the priest’s house, which adjoined it; but 
he did not turn his head, and so failed to see 
that Father Lawrence, followed by Nancy, 
was just issuing from the latter, as he went 
by at a sharp canter. 

“Is not that Mr. Conway?” asked the 
father, speaking over his shoulder to Nancy, 
as she tramped along behind. “ Did Con- 
stance send for him also ? ” 

“Not as I knows of, sir,” was the re- 
sponse. “Deed, I’m sure she didn’t — for 
she sent Uncle Jack for Mass Francis, and 
me for you, and she didn’t have nobody to 
send for Mr. Conway.” 

“ He is going to your house, though, I 
think.” 

“ Yes, sir, I ’spect he is.” 

“ He will be just in time, then.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ I wonder — ” began the good priest, 
thoughtfully. But at that moment Conway 
chanced to look back, and, seeing those two 
together, turned and galloped hastily toward 
them. He understood at once that Father 
Lawrence had been summoned by Con- 
stance or her mother, and if that summons 
foreboded news, whether good or ill, he 
wished to hear it at once. 

“ Good-morning, father,” he said, as he 
drew near, and reined up Mazeppa so 
suddenly as almost to throw him on his 
haunches. “Have they heard any thing 
new at Mrs. Lee’s ? ” 

“Good-morning, Mr. Conway, answered 
the father, a little more ceremoniously than 
he often spoke, for, kind and gentle as he 
was by nature, and little given to judging 
any one, he could not but regard with some- 
thing of distrust this black sheep who had 


wandered into his fold, and whom every 
one believed to be connected, either directly 
or indirectly, with the loss of its pet lamb. 
“Yes; they have heard some news at Mrs. 
Lee’s — not ill news, however,” he added, 
quickly, as he saw how pale the young 
man’s face became. “ Good news, rather. 
Constance sends me word that she has just 
received a letter from Mabel.” 

“ A letter ! — from Mabel ! ” 

It was all he could say, for his aston 
ishment was so great that it quite over- 
whelmed him. He looked at Nancy, with 
a mute interrogation which Nancy answered 
in her own dry fashion. » 

“Yes, sir; a letter from Miss Mabel. 
Miss Constance got it about half an hour 
ago, and she sent me right straight for Fa- 
ther Lawrence.” 

“Why did she not send — why did she 
not let me know ? ” 

“ There has not been time,” said Father 
Lawrence. “ Of course she would have sent 
and let Mr. Seyton and yourself know, if — 
But don’t let me detain you, Mr. Conway. 
I see you are in haste to go on.” 

Conway had not the least idea of allow- 
ing himself to be detained ; but he mut- 
tered something like a hasty acknowledg- 
ment for this consideration, and, striking his 
spurs almost unconsciously into the aston- 
ished Mazeppa, galloped forward, and was 
out of sight in a moment. 

A few seconds later, he had dismounted 
at Mrs. Lee’s gate, and was walking up the 
rose-bordered path that led to the front 
door. It stood open, as usual ; but an inex- 
pressible air of silence and sadness brooded 
over the house. No voice sounded, no foot- 
step echoed, no pleasant carol of song, or 
ripple of laughter, came from the sitting- 
room, or floated down the stairs. All was 
rigid order and unbroken silence. He stood 
listening for a moment, but the house might 
have been deserted, for all sign of. life 'it 
gave — and then knocked gently on one side 
of the open door. The next instant there 
was a rustle of garments, a light footstep, 
and Constance came down the staircase to 
meet him. She started when she saw who 
it was ; but it was not a start of ill-pleased 
surprise. On the contrary, she smiled as 


A FORGERY. 


109 


he had not seen her smile in weary weeks, 
and held out her hand. 

“ You are just in time,” she said. “I — 
but I see you have heard the news. Hush! 

• — not a word! Mamma will overhear us if 
we talk here. Come in.” 

He followed without a syllable, as she 
led the way into the sitting-room, the blinds 
of which were closed to exclude as inucb as 
possible of the sultry August air, and the 
cool, fragrant atmosphere of which might 
at another moment have brought to him a 
sense of positive rest and peace. But now 
he could think of nothing save the news he 
had heard and was yet to hear — the strange, 
incomprehensible news, as it seemed — and 
the moment they were within the room, he 
turned to her. 

“Tell me,” he said, hurriedly, “is it 
true? Have you — have you really heard 
from her ? ” 

“Yes, I have heard from her,” she an- 
swered^ in an almost solemn tone. “ It is 
very strange, but it is true. She gives no 
explanation. She tells us nothing — hut, O 
Mr. Conway, she is living! and that is all 
we need care to know.” 

“All we need care to know ! ” he re- 
peated, passionately. “It is what I have 
known all the time, and it is the thought 
above all others which sets me mad ! It — 
but this is folly. Let me see the letter.” 

lie spoke imperiously — spoke as one who 
demands a right, rather than as one who 
requests a favor — but Constance made no 
demur. She drew the letter at once from 
her pocket and held it toward him. 

“It will hurt you,” she said. “I give 
you warning of that beforehand. But it is 
your right to see it, and I would not with- 
liold it if I could. Only, before you take it, 
thank God with me, once at least, that she 
is yet spared to us.” 

But he did not say a word. He took 
the letter to one of the windows, dashed 
open the shutters, and read the few lines it 
contained. 

“ Mt Dakling : Don’t think hardly of 
me that I should have gone away as I did, 
and caused you all the suffering and anxiety 
of the past three weeks. I could not help 


it — indeed I could not — and when you hear 
my story, you will forgive me, I am sure. I 
am happy — quite happy ; and I beg you to 
believe so. Don’t fret about me, and don’t 
let mamma fret. Tell her to feel as if I had 
gone on a visit, and to believe — what I sol- 
emnly assure her — that I will return very 
soon. I hoped indeed to see you before 
this; but it is impossible just now. I onlj 
write to relieve your mind ; to tell you that 
I am alive and well; that I have done noth 
ing which need grieve you, and that I love 
you as dearly as ever. Kiss mamma for me, 
and my dear godfather. Tell them both that 
I am certainly coming back ; and remember 
always that you have the wdiole heart of 

“ Mabel.” 

That was all. Hot a word of explana- 
tion concerning her departure, her com- 
panion, or her intention ; not the faintest 
clew of her whereabouts ; not the slightest 
mention of the lover to whom she had gone 
away affianced. The letter which Constance 
greeted so gladly had only made the mys- 
tery deeper than ever ; and only added ten- 
fold darker doubts and fears than those 
which had encompassed it before. 

And Constance, looking on, saw Con- 
way’s face pale whiter and whiter, as he 
read the short page to the end ; and when 
he finished, instead of turning round and 
speaking, his eye went back to tlie begin- 
ning, as if he could not believe that what he 
saw was indeed all. Then suddenly he 
turned and fiung it on the table before her. 

“It is a lie! ” he said. “My God, Miss 
Lee, do you thing I am mad, to credit such 
a thing as this ? ” 

She looked at him with eyes full of piti- 
ful amaze, but before she could reply steps 
sounded in the hall, and Father Lawrence, 
accompanied by Nowell, entered the room. 
They had encountered each other at the 
gate, and it was very evident that the latter 
as well as the former had already heard the 
news which was the cause of their abrupt 
summons. He scarcely noticed Conway at 
all, and gave his companion no time for greet- 
ings, but walked directly up to his cousin. 

“ You sent for me, Constance — what is 


it?” 


no 


MABEL LEE. 


lie had advanced to the table near which 
she was standing, and, instead of replying, 
she pushed the letter across to him. He 
seized it at once, opened and read it just 
where he was. The three, looking on, saw 
the lines of his face deepen and harden 
with every moment — the rugged eyebrows 
draw nearer and nearer together, until they 
knit themselves into a dark frown, while 
the narrow lips were compressed like iron. 
When he finished reading, he looked up, 
not at Constance, nor at Conway, but at 
Father Lawrence, and held the open sheet 
toward him. 

“ I suppose you would like to see it,” he 
said, in his cold, harsh voice. “ Take it, by 
all means, and admire, if you can, such a 
notable device.” 

“ A notable device ! ” the other re- 
peated. “ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Read it, and answer that question for 
yourself.” 

Father Lawrence received the letter, but, 
as he did so, his eyes wandered to Con- 
stance, and, seeing how pale and faint she 
was, he took a step forward, and before she 
knew what he was about, seated her in a 
deep chair that stood near. Then he laid 
his hand on her shoulder. “ My poor child, 
keep still ! ” he said. It was all that he did 
say ; but his sweet, solemn voice spoke as 
much to her heart as to her worn-out frame. 
Keep still ! It is what faitli says to us al- 
ways — what it tells the troubled, the weary, 
and the anxious, in all trials, however great 
or however small. Our puny efforts can 
avail literally nothing against the mighty 
barrier of circumstance which is the expo- 
nent of God’s decree ; but there is Another, 
and a Stronger, who holds all things in His 
hand, to whom all things whatsoever are 
possible, and who sustains those who lay 
down all weapons of warfare at His feet. 
Keep still I Poor, aching, wretched human 
hearts, when shall we learn that in this is 
comprised the answer to all enigmas, the 
ending of all griefs, the cessation of all anx- 
ieties? When shall we learn it? Ah, sure- 
ly, not while the agony of bereavement or 
of outrage is pressing upon us, while every 
heart-string is torn and bleeding, and every 
nerve is quivering with some bitter hope- 


lessness, or when the gray pall of some 
mighty desolation comes down and shuts 
out all glory, all beauty, all comfort, human 
or divine, in one great blackness ! Yet, even 
then, it is taught us sometimes, through 
sheer exhaustion ; and it was thus that Con- 
stance learned it now. She sank back, 
closed her eyes, and faintly moved her lips 
in prayer, while — with his hand still resting 
on her shoulder — Father Lawrence read the 
letter signed with Mabel’s name. 

When he finished, he looked up at How- 
ell, with astonishment and incredulity legi- 
ble on his face. 

“ What is the meaning of it? ” he asked. 
“It cannot be Mabel — our Mabel — who 
writes thus ? ” 

“ Mabel ! ” repeated the other, scornfully. 
“ Can you think such a thing? Is it possi- 
ble you do not see the object for which that 
precious effusion has been manufactured ? ” 

“ I — how should ^ ? ” 

“ How should you ? Why, the plot is so 
shallow that a child might read it! So 
shallow, that the end aimed at — the end of 
calling off search and inquiry — was never 
further from being gained than at this mo- 
ment! So shalloAV, that the plotter, who- 
ever he may be, might have done better, if 
he had tried, I am sure ! ” 

His eyes turned darkly and sternly tow- 
ard Conway as he uttered the last words ; 
but Conway paid no attention to the glance. 
On the contrary, he, too, looked directly at 
Father Lawrence, and addressed himself to 
him. 

“I agree with Mr. Howell, sir,” he said; 
“ and you, I am sure, will agree with both 
of us. That letter is not — cannot be — gen- 
uine.” 

The priest looked down at it and shook 
his head slowly, like one much troubled and 
perplexed. 

“ I cannot believe that it is genuine,” he 
said, “but yet it is Mabel’s writing. We 
must all recognize that.” 

“It is a forgery of her writing,” said 
Howell, curtly. 

Conway started and looked at him ea- 
gerly. “ You think so? ” he asked. 

“ Ho,” the other answered. “ I know 
it.” 


A FORGERY 


111 


“But you must have some reason — some 
proof for such a belief? ” 

“ I desire no better reason, no better 
proof, than its own internal evidence, Mr. 
Conway,” said Nowell, coldly. “I do not 
despair of finding others, however. — Con- 
stance, will you get me some of Mabel’s 
writing ? Father Lawrence, if you have fin- 
ished with that thing, I will trouble you for 
it.” 

Constance left the room, and Father 
Lawrence handed over “the thing” at once. 
AVhen the former returned, she brought an 
open letter in her hand. 

“ This was written last Christmas, when 
Mabel was spending a month at Colonel 
Mordaunt’s,” she said. “I have nothing 
later.” 

“It will do,” said Nowell, and he car- 
ried the two letters to the window which 
Conway had thrown open, and laid them 
side by side before him — side by side, com- 
pared them patiently. They were very 
much alike, so much alike that it was not 
wonderful ♦ Constance had been deceived, 
and that he himself had only been enlight- 
ened by what seemed a fiash of inspiration. 
They were almost identical in general ap- 
j)earance, but an eye less quick than his 
might have noticed that in detail they dif- 
fered. Many little tricks of the pen were 
visible in the first, which the second totally 
lacked ; and there was a formality, a regu- 
larity of aspect in the last, which the other 
did not exhibit. Beyond this, the difference 
w^as too subtile to be expressed — it was 
only to be felt. Most of us have seen forged 
handwriting in our time, and most of us, 
therefore, will have recognized what Now- 
ell recognized tlien — i. e., the undoubted 
fact that every thing on this strange earth 
of ours possesses a soul as well as a body, 
and that the soul of reality is invariably ab- 
sent in writing meant to simulate another 
hand than that of the person who guides the 
pen. It is like some poetry we have read- 
some statuary we have seen— some music 
we have heard— a body, which may per- 
haps be a very beautiful body, but is none 
the less a body without a soul. Nowell had 
not the faintest leaning toward metaphysics, 
of any thin^ connected with it, so he did 


not put this thought into words — much less 
pause to follow it out in all its bearings. He 
simply accepted a fact as he found it ; and 
the fact here stared him in the face, that 
the letter which purported to have been 
written by Mabel, bore upon it the stamp 
of unreality. Further than this he could 
not go, for, from the first word to the last, 
there was not a line or a dot which afforded 
him even the slightest clew. 

Meanwhile, Father Lawrence, turning to 
Constance, asked if she had told her mother 
any thing of this new turn of affairs. She 
shook her head. 

“No,” she said. “I did not doubt the 
letter myself — I did not think for a moment 
of its being forged — but still I had a vague 
misgiving, and I felt that it was wisest not 
to tell her. It would have been such a 
cruel blow — ah ! father, such a cruel blow 
to learn that it was false.” 

“It was wisest to have left her in igno- 
rance,” he answered, gently. And yet he 
felt that it was not on Mrs. Lee that the 
cruel blow had fallen — that hope had come 
for one moment, to be dashed by despair the 
next — and his heart ached for the piteous 
eyes uplifted to his face. He looked half 
appealingly at Conway, and Conway came 
forward and spoke. 

“ Take comfort. Miss Lee,” he said. “ If 
your cousin is right — and I firmly believe 
that he is — in pronouncing that letter a for- 
gery, it goes to prove that our search has 
in some way struck nearer the truth than 
we ourselves had dared to hope. If it is a 
forgery, it is meant, as he says, to call off 
inquiry ; and therefore it proves conclusive- 
ly that inquiry has become dangerous.” 

“ It does even more,” added Father Law- 
rence. “ It gives a clew that may prove a 
very valuable aid to search.” 

Conway shook his head. 

“I am not sanguine of that,” he said. 
“The man who could forge such a letter 
as this would consider well all possible 
chances of detection, and avoid them.” 

“But have you examined? Have you 
looked at the post-mark, for instance ? ” 

“I have,” said Constance, as Conway 
took up the envelope, which lay on the ta* 
ble. “ It tells nothing.” 


112 


MABEL LEE. 


“ N'o,’’ said Conway, “for it is mailed at 
Edgertoii ; and Edgerton is a point where 
so many different points of travel converge, 
that any one in passing might drop a letter, 
and safely defy detection. Besides, it is 
only sixty miles distant from here.” 

“ The seal, then ? ” 

“The seal is certainly Mabel’s,” said 
Constance. “ It is a device of which she 
was very fond, and always wore on her 
chatelaine. It is hers — I am sure of that.” 

Conway looked at the seal — he, too, rec- 
ognized the device — and, while he looked, 
Nowell came back to the table. 

“ I never saw a better imitation of a 
handwriting,” the latter said, with obvious 
reference to the letter in his hand. “ There 
is not a stroke to betray the forgery ; and 
yet, on the fact that it is forged, I would be 
willing to stake my life. — Constance, if you 
take my advice, you will say nothing to my 
aunt about this.” 

“I had not thought of saying any thing, 
Francis.” 

“ And I will take the letter with me to 
my office. Perhaps, by dint of hard study, 
I may find some clew in it. Where is the 
envelope? ” 

Conway handed it to him, and he took 
it with a cold bend of the head, by way of 
acknowledgment. Having refolded and 
replaced the letter, he put it in his pocket, 
and left the room after a general good-morn- 
ing. But he had hardly vanished from 
sight, when his cousin started forward, and 
followed him to the front door. 

“Francis,” she said, hastily, as he turned 
at the sound of her step behind him, “I 
want to beg one favor — don’t keep any 
thing from me. If — if you do find a clew, for 
Heaven’s sake let me know of it. I can 
bear any thing better than a thought of se- 
crecy. Promise me this! ” 

He looked at her intently before he re- 
plied; and even he was touched by her 
pleading eyes and quivering features, so 
that when he answered it was almost 
gently. 

“Yes, I promise. But I have little or 
no hope of finding any thing. There! — 
don’t keep me. I must go.” 

“One moment! Tell me what you 


think. Does this prove that — that she is 
alive ? ” 

“ I have never doubted her being alive ; 
and, if it proves any thing, it certainly goes 
to prove that.” He hesitated a moment, 
then went on quickly : “ Keep heart. Con- 
stance. Remember this — if she is on the 
earth, I will find her.” 

She looked up at him gratefully — ah ! so 
gratefully — and still followed him with her 
eyes after he strode away. He was rough, 
and harsh, and bitter, but she wondered 
now if she had ever before been conscious 
of his inestimable value ; ever before recog- 
nized the sterling gold that made the foun- 
dation of his character ; ever before realized 
how entirely he was that best of all things 
on tins earth of ours — a sure and steadfast 
help in time of need; a very tower of 
strength, on whom the weak and helpless 
could lean ; and in wTiom they could put 
trust, sure that it would never be betrayed. 

When she went back into the sitting- 
room, she found that Father Lawrence had 
gone up to see Mrs. Lee, who, during all 
these weeks, had never left her chamber, 
and that Conway 'was sitting in an attitude 
of profound despondency by the centre- 
table, his arms supported on it, and his head 
buried in his hands. He did not hear her 
step as she entered, and the sound of her 
voice at his side was the first thing that 
roused him. Then he looked up with a 
face that quite startled her by its pallor and 
haggardness. 

“ Did you speak to me ? ” he said. “ T 
beg pardon, I did not hear you.” 

“I only called your name,” she an- 
swered. “I only wanted to say to you 
what Francis said to me a moment ago — 
Keep heart. O Mr. Conway, God is very 
good. He will never be cruel enough to 
take her from us forever.” 

The cloud on his face did not lift, but 
rather darkened, and the pale lips com- 
pressed themselves like steel. When he re- 
plied, it was slowly and laboredly, as one 
who speaks under the pressure of some 
stern self-control. 

“You are a better Christian than I 
am. Miss Lee, if you can speak, or even 
think of God, in this matter. To me, He 



“ Conway was sitting in an attitude of profound despondency by the centre-table, his 
arms supported on it, and his head buried in his hands.” p. 112. 






A FORGERY. 


113 


pceras quite apart from it. To me, there is 
only the remembrance of man and devil— 
and the bitterness, the misery, the agony, 
of feeling my own impotence to ferret them 
out.” 

“In time. You may do so in time.” 

“ In time ? But every hour is an eter- 
nity — and she has been gone six weeks! Do 
you remember that? Do you remember 
that she may be sutfering — what may she 
not be suffering! — while I am here? She is 
somewhere — living or dead, she is some- 
where — and I am powerless to find her ! 
You are a woman. Miss Lee; you cannot 
even imagine what this burning, baffled 
sense of impotence is ! ” 

“ I think I can.” 

“ No ; because you were not made to go 
forth and conquer Fate by the strong hand ; 
you have not been trained to believe all 
things possible to the resolute. Two months 
ago, if this had been foretold to me — this, 
and my own inactivity — I should have 
.aughed it to scorn. I should have said that 
I would search the world over to find her ; 
and yet, you see ! She has been gone six 
weeks, and I — am here ! ” 

She could not say any thing to comfort 
liim. She stood too sadly in need of com- 
fort herself to be able to speak words of 
hope and cheer. She could not again bid him 
“keep heart,” for, alas! her own heart was 
failing, and her own courage sinking with 
every moment. She could only lay her thin 
white hand — a shadowy hand it had grown 
in these six weeks — down, upon his, and re- 
peat once more, as if the words had been a 
talisman : 

“ God is very good to us ! ” Then jshe 
added, softly, “ His will be done.” 

He looked up impatiently, almost fiercely 
— who shall say with what reply trembling 
on his lips ? — but the pale, worn face, the 
large, sad eyes, hushed and rebuked him. 
This woman had suffered more than he; this 
woman’s desolation was deeper than his; 
but she could say that — she could feel that 
— while his heart was one seething caldron 
of bitterness against the Omnipotent, as 
well as against the perpetrators of the crime 
which had outraged him! He could not 
imitate her faith, though it seemed to him 
8 


at the moment almost sublime ; for he had 
flung his human strength against the mighty 
strength of God’s fiat, and had yet to learn 
that the end of this unequal conflict is only 
weariness and defeat. But he felt awed and 
silenced, as we have all felt in the presence 
of something which is as far above us as the 
everlasting heavens are above the earth. 

“I hope He will be good to you,” he 
said. “ I hope you may never feel one hun- 
dredth part of what I feel at this moment. 
If you ever should, then He can at least 
pity you. I think I had better go now. It is 
growing late, and I have yet to learn what 
the mail brought to Seyton House.” 

“ Do you think it is likely to have 
brought you a letter like — like that one? ” 

“No, I don’t think so. Either it is 
their policy to ignore me, or else the forger 
or forgers do not know of my existence. 
But I do expect, I have been expecting 
daily, news from one of my agents.” 

“You have agents at work, then ? ” 

He laughed bitterly. 

“ Do you think I have been idle all this 
time? I have my suspicions — I have had 
them from the first — but they were vague 
and needed proof. I could not prosecute 
the search for this proof myself, because to 
do so would have been to excite alarm, but 
I have put a safe detective on the track, 
and I wait — that is all.” 

“And when — ” 

She stopped short. Her quick ear caught 
the click of the front gate, and the sound of 
a man’s tread on the gravel -walk that led to 
the house. She turned hastily, thinking 
that Nowell might have come back; but in- 
stead of Nowell it was Anderson who ap- 
peared. He walked into the hall, and then 
stood still, hesitating evidently whether to 
knock on one side of the open door, or to 
pass through to the kitclien. While he hesi- 
tated, Constance went forward, startling 
him very much by suddenly appearing, like 
a white apparition, in the sitting-room door. 

“ What is it, Anderson? ” she asked. 

Anderson started, but touched his hat, 
and answered promptly. “It’s only Mass 
Phil I’m looking for, ma’am. Is he here ? ” 

“ Yes, he is here. Have you any thing 
for him ? ” 


114 


MABEL LEE. 


“ Nothing hut a message, ma’am.” 

“ Come in, then — or, stay. I will send 
him to you.” 

She vanished, and after a moment Con- 
way came out, pale and eager. He ex- 
changed only a few short sentences with the 
servant, and then went back to Constance. 

“ My uncle has sent for me,” he said. 
“Like a fool, I think it may mean some- 
thing, while it is probably nothing. If it 
should be any thing, of course you know you 
will hear immediately. Good-by.” 

He shook hands, giving her no time for 
reply ; and, standing at the window a min- 
ute-later, she watched him gallop out of 
sight, down the green village street. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A LOST TRINKET. 

Dismounting at the door of Seyton 
House, Conway tossed his rein to a servant 
who came forward at the moment, walked 
hastily round, and entered the library by 
one of its windov/s. 

As he expected, he found Mr. Seyton in 
his usual place — the deep arm-chair that 
was wheeled just before Mabel’s portrait. 
He had broken terribly in these six weeks, 
had grown wan and weak of aspect, falter- 
ing of speech, and altogether more like a 
quavering old man than like the elegant 
gentleman, whose courtly beauty and court- 
ly refinement had been a proverb all his 
life — but he looked up now with some ring 
of the old self, both in voice and manner. 

“ I am glad to see you, Phil,” he said. 
“You must forgive me for sending after 
you, and startling you, no doubt ; but these 
came, and I could not restrain my impa- 
tience to hear what was in them.” 

He pointed to the table, and Conway, 
advancing, saw two letters lying there. The 
young man took them up eagerly. They 
were both directed to himself, by the same 
liand, and both bore the sam.e post-mark. He 
glanced at them, and then looked up at his 
uncle. 

“ They are from Atkins,” he said, tear- 
ing one of them open as he spoke. “ I won- 


der you did not see this, and read them, 
sir.” 

“I did see, or rather take for granted, 
that they were from him,” Mr. Seyton an- 
swered. “ But it did not occur to me to 
read what was not directed to me. Indeed, 
I don’t think I should have done so if it had 
occurred to me. Make haste, Philip. Tell 
me what he says.” 

“I can’t tell yet,” Conway replied, run- 
ning his eye hastily down the page before 
him. “I — but perhaps the shortest way 
will be to read it aloud.” 

He read aloud, therefore — rapidly, but 
distinctly — the letter which follows : 

“ viLLE, ViEGiNiA, August 7, 18 — 

“ Sir : I reached this point a week ago, 
and I should have let you hear from me be- 
fore now, if there had been any thing to 
tell you. But there has not been. I have 
been locking about and feeling my ground^ 
but I have not discovered any thing yet. 
According to your instructions, I send you 
an account of all I have found out up to this 
time, which, as you will see for yourself, is 
very little. Mr. Harding came directly 
from Ayre to this place, making no stop- 
pages by the way. I was with him all the 
time, and can vouch for this. When I say 
that I was with him all the time, I mean 
that I was with him as much as possible 
without drawing his notice. You warned 
me to be particular about this, and I have 
been careful. I am sure that he has no idea 
that I am sent here to watch his movements. 
It was not until we reached Raleigh that he 
saw me, and then we fell into conversation, 
and*I told him I was a commercial traveller 
in the hardware line. I did this because I 
knew it was not his line, and he was not 
likely to find me out. I have made a good 
many inquiries about him since I have been 
here, and I find him to be a man respected 
by everybody. Some people laugh at him, 
and say he is too religious and too strict in 
his notions for a young man, but everybody' 
is ready to take oath, if necessary, on his 
honesty. As far as I can see, he leads as 
regular and open a life as any man need to. 
He is said to be studying for th*e ministry, 
and in consequence of this, as I suppose, he 


A LOST TRINKET. 


11 ^ 


Bpends most of his time at home. But he 
walks every morning, and generally takes a 
ride in the evening. He seems very fond of 
ladies’ society, and attends regularly at all 
the Sunday-schools and Bible-classes of his 
church. I have met him only once or twice 
since I arrived here, for I took pains not to 
throw myself in his way, hut then we had 
some religious talk. This is all that I have 
to say. I hope you will not be discouraged 
because it is so little. If you are right in 
your suspicions, there is no hurry, and no 
cause to be downhearted, Mr. Harding is 
bound to betray himself sooner or later, and 
I never yet found that you landed a fish any 
the sooner for pulling him in too short. It 
is a tough job, but I think after a while we 
may clear it up. 

“ Your ob’t servant, 

“Rob’t Atkins.” 

When he finished, Conway laid the letter 
down quite silently, and Mr. Seyton was the 
first to make any comment. 

“ He speaks very cautiously, Philip. He 
does not seem to entertain any hope,” he 
said, doubtfully — wearily almost. 

“He is a cautious fellow, sir,” said Con- 
W'ay, “ and as for hope, he never deals with 
any thing lees than absolute facts. We can 
depend on him for those — that is all that is 
necessary.” 

“ Ye— es.” 

“And now we will see what he says in 
his other letter. Don’t hope any thing, 
sir.” 

“I’m not hoping.” 

“ neither am I,” said the young man ; 
but, despite the assertion, he set his teeth, 
and his eye brightened as he tore open the 
second letter. Mhen he unfolded it, there 
tumbled out on the table a small round 
something, which looked like a tiny wafer. 

“ What is that ? ” asked Mr. Seyton, ea- 
gerly. 

“We’ll see in a moment,” Conway an- 
swered — and pushing it aside, so that it 
might not distract his attention, he dashed 
at once into the letter. It w as dated a day 
later than the other, though, from some ir- 
regularity of the mails, they had both ar- 
rived at the same time. 


“ VTLLE, Virginia, Augmt 8, 18 — . 

“ Sir : I wrote to you yesterday, giving 
an account of how matters have progressed 
with me up to that time. Since I mailed 
my letter, something has occurred which 
may help to throw a little light on our way, 
and, according to your instructions, I at 
once forward you an account of it. When I 
finished my letter yesterday, I took it to the 
post-ofiice, and as I was stepping into the 
post-ofiice, I met Mr. Harding coming out. 
We exchanged a good-day and a few words 
about the weather, and then he went on, 
and I walked in to mail my letter, i^fter 
handing it to the postmaster, I started out, 
when, just as I turned, I happened to see 
something on the fioor which looked like a 
piece of money, and I stooped and picked it 
up. After I picked it up I saw that it was 
not a piece of money, but a seal set in gold. 
I was about to hand it to the postmaster, 
and tell him to keep it till the owner called 
for it, when something about it put me in 
mind of one I had noticed on Mr. Harding’s 
watch-chain when he stood talking to me a 
day or two before. I had noticed it be- 
cause it comes natural to me to notice littl-e 
things, and because it looked like a lady’s 
seal, and partly because it looked very pret- 
ty. I am quite sure that this was the same 
one, and I slipped it in my pocket, thinking 
I would have a look at it before returning 
it. On my way back to the hotel, I met a 
little negro coming along at a trot. I knew 
him in a minute, for 1 had taken pains to 
find out who the Harding servants were, 
and to establish a sort of nodding acquaint- 
ance with all of them. This little fellow 
was one who generally went on errands. I 
asked him if any thing was the matter at 
home, as he seemed to be in a hurry. He 
said nothing was the matter, only his Mass 
Cyril had lost a seal, and he thought he had 
lost it in the post-office, and had sent him 
to look for it, and he ended by asking me if 
I had seen it. I did not want to tell a 
downright lie, so I answered that I had 
not looked for it, and the little scamp trot- 
ted on. But I felt almost as if I was steal- 
ing the thing, though all I wanted was a good 
look at it. I hurried back to my room, and 
as soon as I got there I took it out and ex 


116 


MABEL LEE. 


amined it, and found it to be a white stone, 
with a device of a bird carrying a letter, 
and some words round it which I cannot 
make out. I send you a wax impression of 
it, and you will be able to tell better by 
that than by my description. It :jb a lady’s 
seal — there is no doubt about that. But 
there was nothing suspicious about it that I 
could see, and I had just made up my mind 
to go and return it to Mr. Harding, when I 
happened to look at the inside, which had a 
gold plate over it, and there I saw two in- 
itials scratched with a pin, or some other 
sharp instrument, and making the letters 
M. L. When I saw that, I gave up all 
thought of returning it until I heard from 
you. Of course, as far as I know, it may 
have come into his possession fairly. The 
young lady may have given it to him. But 
still, he being under suspicion, and this be- 
ing a suspicious sort of circumstance, I had 
no notion of putting out of my hands what 
might be an important proof. So I locked 
it up in my trunk, and went out to finish 
my walk. The first person I saw when I 
got in the street was Mr. Harding. He said 
he was very glad to meet me, as I was the 
person who was in the post-office just after 
he left it, and he wanted to ask me if I had 
happened to find a small seal which he 
thought he had dropped in there. I was 
obliged to tell him I had not seen it, and I 
asked him why he thought he had dropped 
it there, and remarked that he might have 
dropped it in the street. He said no, he did I 
not think so, that he remembered touching 
it with his hand the minute before he went 
into the office, and that he could not recol- 
lect any thing about it afterward, and he 
missed it just before he got home. He said 
he hated to lose it, and he looked quite con- 
fused, I thought, and turned very red. And 
then he said the reason why he did not like to 
lose it was that it was a present from a lady 
friend of his. We had got to the post-office 
by this time, and I walked along in with 
him, to hear if anything else would turn up 
about it. The postmaster did not know 
any thing about it, of course, and Mr. Hard- 
ing described it to him very particularly, 
and made him hand out the letter he had 
put in the office at the time that he lost the 


seal, to show him the impression of it. He 
showed it to me too, and when I had looked 
at the seal and was returning the letter, I 
took the liberty of looking at the name on 
the back. It was Miss Livinia Crane, Ed- 
gerton. I have been careful to give you a 
full account of this, though it may seem a 
little tliiug. I shall keep the seal till I hear 
from you, which I hope will be soon. 

“Your ob’t servant, 

“Rob’t Atkins.” 

Conway put the letter down, and took 
up the seal. Before doing so, he felt con- 
fident that it would substantiate all he sus- 
pected from the first ; and he was not even 
faintly surprised when he saw the same im- 
pression that he had seen scarcely an hour 
before on the back of Mabel’s letter. He 
gave only one glance, and held it out for 
Mr. Seyton’s inspection. 

“Look at it, sir,” he said. “Do you 
recognize it ? ” 

Mr. Seyton looked, and a single glance 
was enough for him also. His eyes lingered 
only one instant on the device, and then 
raised themselves to the pale, set face of his 
nephew. 

“Yes,” he answered. “It is Mabel’s. 
She has worn it on her chatelaine for a year 
or more ; and the ” — his voice faltered slight- 
ly — “ the last note I received from her was 
sealed with it. Still,” he went on quickly, 
“this is not absolute proof of any thing 
against Cyril. Remember, it may have come 
into his possession quite fairly, and — ” 

“Stop one moment, sir,” Conway inter- 
rupted. “ Before you proceed any further, 
let me tell you that something later than 
the note of which you speak, later than any 
thing which Mabel wrote in her owm home, 
has been sealed with that impression. Tho 
same mail which brought these letters to 
me, brought to Miss Constance a letter pur- 
porting to come from her sister.” 

“A letter! — purporting to come from 
her sister ! ” 

Mr. Seyton’s amazement was greater 
than that of any one else had been, and his 
excitement much more apparent. Preoc- 
cupied as Conway was, he could not help 
but being struck by the change that had 


A LOST TRINKET. 


117 


come over the face at which he gazed — the 
face that a moment before had been listless 
with the weary listlessness of hope deferred, 
but that now quivered and glowed with 
sudden emotion, whose eyes brightened, 
and into whose sunken cheeks there flamed 
a crimson color that made the young man 
regret Laving spoken with too much haste. 

‘‘Yes, a letter,” he said. “But don’t 
hope any thing, sir. It was a forgery. 
Both Nowell and myself clearly recognized 
that.” 

“ A forgery ! ” 

“ Yes, a forgery.” 

“ And — and sealed with this seal ? ” 

“ Sealed with that seal.” 

The color faded from Mr. Seyton’s face, 
and the light from his eyes — instead of that 
light there came into the latter a look of 
horror-stricken amaze. He looked at his 
nephew for a minute before he spoke again, 
very slowly : 

“You are sure of this, Philip ? ” 

' “I am as sure as that I stand here, sir. 
Miss Lee identified the seal at once.” 

“ As — don’t wonder if I am slow to com- 
prehend — as the same with this ? ” 

“As identically the same.” 

“ My God ! ” 

He sank back in his chair, and covered 
his face with his hands. After that, there 
was silence in the room for several minutes. 
Conway did not share his uncle’s feelings in 
the least degree — he could hardly, indeed, 
realize the horror that came upon this gal- 
lant gentleman with the appalling thought 
that the traitor had been of his own house- 
hold and his own blood ; but he recognized 
the existence of these feelings, and respected 
them sufliciently to keep silent. Taking up 
Atkins’s letter, he occupied himself in read- 
ing it over — this time slowly and attentively 
— and, when he came to the end, Mr. Seyton 
looked up and spoke. 

“ Tell me about it — every thing,” he said, 
hoarsely. 

“There is not much to tell,” Conway 
answered. But he went over the whole 
statement concisely, while his uncle listened 
without interruption, until he mentioned 
the post-mark of the letter. Then he point- 
ed to the missive lying on the table. 


“ Does not he speak of Edgerton ? ” he 
asked. 

Conway replied by reading aloud that 
portion of Atkins’s story which related to tlie 
tetter he had seen in the post-office. “ Miss 
Lavinia Crane, Edgerton,” he read ; and then 
looked up at his uncle. “It will be easy to 
substantiate this,” he said, “by simply in- 
quiring whether or not Miss Crane was in 
Edgerton at the time.” 

“ But you surely don’t — you surely can’t 
— suspect her of complicity in such a mat- 
ter?” 

“ Suspect her ! ” said Conway, firing 
into the sudden passionate energy which 
had broken out once before that day. “ I 
would suspect my own brother — my own 
sister— if proof went against them, sir ! In 
a matter of this kind, we cannot stop to 
consider probability, or to weigh the re- 
spectability of any one toward whom the 
evidence may point. We must follow out a 
clew exactly as it is given to us ; and accept 
the conclusion presented, let it implicate 
whom it will. I should be a fool, if I allowed 
myself to be brought to a halt here, because 
Miss Crane becomes involved.” 

“But it is simply impossible! What 
motive could she have? ” 

“That is more than I can tell you — 
more, indeed, than I care to consider. She 
may have a motive of which we know 
nothing, or she may only be a blind instru- 
ment. In either case, our next means of 
prosecuting the search is through her.” 

“ And what will you do? ” 

“I cannot say, until I go to Ayre and 
see Nowell.” 

“ See Nowell ! But he — ” 

“ Would quite as soon care to see the 
devil,” answered the young man, bitterly; 
“ but I cannot stop to consider his feelings. 
He has a right to be informed of this ; and, as 
a lawyer, he will be able to judge what onr 
next step ought to be, better than I can.” 

“ And he is safe,” said Mr. Seyton, in a 
low voice. It was significant of the man’s 
nature, that although he, too, was in a 
measure possessed by the reckless detective 
fever and passionate readiness to suspect 
anybody and everybody, which had taken 
absolute control of Conway, yet he still 


118 


MABEL LEE. 


clung to that regard for family honor which 
all his lifetime had been dearer to him 
than life itself. When he consented to the 
watch which Conway proposed establish- 
ing over Cyril Harding, he had only done 
80 on condition of its profound secrecy. 
And now — now, when he felt more swayed 
than ever before toward Conway’s belief, 
he had still a thought for the name which 
had never been tarnished, and over which 
there hung this black cloud of positive dis- 
grace. ‘‘He is safe,” he said, alluding to 
Howell, and then he spoke warmly to his 
nephew. “Don’t be rash or precipitate, 
Philip. Eemember you may do incalculable 
harm if your suspicions are well founded, 
and you betray them too soon.” 

“Trust me for that, sir,” Conway re- 
plied, as he folded Atkins’s letter and placed 
it in his pocket. “I will follow the trail 
like a bloodhound; but you need not fear 
my giving tongue, until I have proved every 
thing. I shall go to Ayre now, and I can- 
not tell how long I may be detained there. 
Don’t wait dinner for me, if I am not back 
in time.” 

He took his whip from the table where 
he had thrown it on his entrance, and 
turned to leave the room. Mr. Seyton looked 
wistfully at the retreating figure, but made 
no effort to detain him ; and, a moment af- 
tenvard, Mazeppa’s hoofs were heard clat- 
tering down the avenue, and dying away in 
the distance. 


CHAPTER XXL 

ALL AT SEA. 

“ Is your master in his office ? ” 

Conway reined up at the sidewalk, and 
asked this question of a half-grown negro 
who was lounging at the doorstep of How- 
ell’s office, and who started and touched his 
hat as he replied : 

“My master? Ho, sir: he’s just left 
town.” 

“ Left town ! ” This unexpected informa- 
tion took the interlocutor so completely by 
surprise, that he could only stare for a mo- 
ment. “ Left town — you must be mistaken.” 


The boy grinned a little, apparently at 
the idea of being mistaken. 

“Ho, sir,” he repeated. “He’s left 
town, and I’m to lock up the oflfice and take 
the key to Mr. Bradford ; and if you’re on 
business — ” 

“I’m not on business. When did he 
go?” 

“’Bout an hour ago, sir.” - 

“ Gone into the country, you mean — not 
far, surely.” 

“ He didn’t say where he was goin’, sir ; 
but I think he was goin’ pretty fur. He 
made me pack his valise, and he said as how 
he ’spected to ketch the stage at R 

“ And did he leave no message for any- 
body?” 

“ He lef’ a note for Miss Constance Lee, 
sir, and I took it and give it to her as soon 
as he was gone. If you’re on business, 
sir — ” 

“ Pm not on business,” repeated Con- 
way, this time quite sharply ; and then he 
turned and rode away. It was like his luck, 
he thought, impatiently. And yet it was 
wonderful how soon he forgot the incon- 
venience and vexation to himself, in trying 
to conjecture where Howell could have 
gone, and what could possibly have taken 
him away from Ayre at such a time as this. 
He had left an hour ago, the boy said — and 
it had not been quite two hours since they 
parted in Mrs. Lee’s house. Could the letter 
have furnished him with any information, 
any clew which had taken him away ? But 
that was clearly impossible. Howell had 
none of his own newly-acquired light upon 
the letter; and he could not have discovered 
anything for himself. It was impossible; 
and yet, it was very strange. The more he 
thought of it, the more strange it appeared, 
until at last he tried to shake off the grow- 
ing interest and curiosity which beset him. 
Might not some professional business have 
called the young lawyer away ? But in a 
moment he saw how impossible that sup- 
position was. Hot to make his fortune a 
dozen times over would Howell have left 
Ayre on professional business at such a time 
as this — a time when the cloud over his 
cousin’s fate had never seemed deeper or 
darker ; and when something which might, 


ALL AT SEA. 


119 


perhaps, prove an important clew, had un- 
expectedly been placed in their hands. Con- 
way gave an impatient jerk at Mazeppa’s 
rein, as he realized how wide of the mark 
his conjectures were; and then the thought 
that, after all, Constance might know every 
thing about the matter, seemed to quicken 
his pace so materially that in a few minutes 
he had again dismounted at Mrs. Lee’s gate. 

It was Nancy who answered his knock 
at the door ; but he had not long to wait 
until Constance came down. She scarcely 
gave him time for any explanation before 
she spoke hurriedly. 

“lam very glad you have come. Per- 
haps you can tell me — or at least help me to 
comprehend— the meaning of this.” 

She extended a folded paper as she spoke. 
Taking it, he opened it without a word. A 
few hasty lines in pencil were all it con- 
tained : 

“ Dear Constance : I have found a clew 
which may, or may not, prove of value ; but 
I start at onqe to follow it up. I tell you 
this, because you desired me not to keep 
you in ignorance of any thing which might 
occur, and not because I wish you to indulge 
hopes that may not be realized. The clew is 
so slight that I entertain little or no expec- 
tation of success ; but I shall try to trace it 
out. I do not tell you where I am going, 
for I hardly know myself. Besides, I do 
not wish your friend Mr. Conway enlight- 
ened on the subject; and I know that, if I 
told you, you would tell him. If I make 
any discovery, you shall hear from me ; but 
once more let me repeat — hope nothing. 

“ Truly, etc., 

Francis NoweLl.” 

Conway read this brief and most unsat- 
isfactory document twice over, before he 
raised his eyes and met the eager, passion- 
ate gaze fixed on him — met it with a great 
deal of unconscious pity in his own. 

“ I am sorry that I can tell you noth- 
ing,” he said. “ But this is as sudden, as 
incomprehensible, to me as to you. I heard 
only a moment ago that your cousin had 
left town ; and I came here hoping that you 
knew why he had done so.” 


“ I know nothing more than that,” she 
answered, “ and, ever since it came, I have 
been vainly? trying to imagine what the clew 
to which he alludes can be. 1 believe I 
should not have showed it to you,” she 
went on hastily, “but I forget every thing 
now except the one absorbing subject. Try 
to forgive him, Mr. Conway. He is very 
unjust, but he means well.” 

“ There is nothing to forgive,” said Con- 
way, quietly. “Mr. Nowell has been fool- 
ish enough to let judgment wait upon 
prejudice ; but if he held me twice as guilty 
as he does I could not feel any resentment 
against him. We are both working for the 
same end — that is a bond of good feeling, 
little as he thinks so. Now, let us consider 
this matter. What clew do you think he 
can possibly have found ? ” 

Constance shook her head with an air 
of very hopeless despondency. 

“I cannot even conjecture. It must be 
connected with the letter ; and yet the let- 
ter seemed barren of clew.” 

“ Did he return it? ” 

“ Yes, it was enclosed with this. He 
might have told me, if only to prevent the 
perpetual torment which this effort to dis- 
cover will prove,” she went on ; “ but it is 
like Francis — like him, as I have always 
known him — to act so. Mr. Conway, look 
at. the matter — think of it. Surely you 
must be able to tell what it is! ” 

She gazed at him, with a world of en-^ 
treaty in her eyes, which he found it very 
hard to meet, very hardAo answer with the 
hopeless negative which was all he had to 
give in reply. But the matter was even 
more mysterious to him than to her; and it 
was necessary to say as much. He did say 
so, after a moment, and then he asked if 
it was not possible that Father Lawrence 
might be better informed. 

“No,” she replied. “Father Lawrence 
was still here w^hen Francis’s note arrivea, 
and his surprise was equal to mine.” 

“ The note came immedij^tely after I left, 
did it not ? ” 

“In about a quarter of an hour after- 
ward.” 

“ I don’t understand ^it,” bo mntteiaa to 
himself. Then, catching Constance’s anx- 


120 


MABEL LEE. 


ious glance, he added aloud : “ The matter 
seems strange enough to you, hut it is ren- 
dered doubly strange to me, by a letter 
which I found awaiting me at Seyton, and 
which I brought at once to Ayre to show to 
your cousin. A letter ” — he paused a mo- 
ment — “a letter which certainly does 
afford a clew.” 

“Mr. Conway! ” 

It was a gasp which she gave — a gasp 
that, together with her increasing paleness, 
BO much alarmed him that he moved has- 
tily toward her. But she recovered herself 
almost immediately, and, by the time he 
gained her side, looked up at him with a 
faint smile. 

“ Never mind about me. It was only 
the surprise. Tell me — what is the clew ? ” 

“ You are sure you can stand any more ? ” 
he asked, anxiously. “It seems to me that 
I have lost all sense, all judgment, or I 
would never have shocked you so.” 

“ You did not shock me; and the best 
thing you can do now is to tell me — tell me 
all about it.” 

He perceived that himself ; so, drawing 
Atkins’s letter from his pocket, he opened 
it and showed her the seal. She recognized 
it at once, as she felt confident she would. 

“ It is Mabel’s,” she said. “ It is identi- 
cal with the one on the envelope.” 

“ Will you get the envelope, and let us 
compare them ? ” 

“ Yes, certainly.” 

She started to leave the room ; then, as 
if struck by a sudden thought, turned back. 

“I quite forgot,” she said, “Francis re- 
turned the letter, but not the envelope.” 

“What! — he did not return the enve- 
lope ? ” 

“No, and the omission only occurred to 
me at this moment.” 

“Then you may rest assured that the 
envelope has given him his clew,” said 
Conway, eagerly. “ But how could it be ? ” 

He looked at her, almost as passionately 
as she had looked at him not many minutes 
before — looked as if he would, by sheer 
force of will, master the secret which eluded 
him. But after a moment another aspect 
of the affair occurred to him, and a dark, 
troubled cloud came into his eyes. 


“He has carried away a most important 
proof,” he said; “and he has literally tied 
my hands until it can be recovered.” 

“ How ? — what is it ? ” 

He answered her by handing her the 
detective’s letter, and bidding her read it. 
She did so, eagerly ; and, when she finished, 
looked at him with amazement and incr e-> g 
dulity struggling together on her face. ^ 

“I don’t understand,” she said. “ What El 
does it mean ? ” 

He explained to her in a few brief but 
forcible words his own view of what it 
meant; and, although .she was quick enough 
to understand him, she was plainly not pre- 
pared to accept his conclusions. 

“I cannot believe it,” she cried. “I 
cannot believe that Mr. Harding is impli- 
cated in such a terrible crime^ and as for 
Lavinia Crane — good Heavens ! Mr. Conway, 
what motive could she have? ” 

“ What difference does it make about 
her motive, or want of motive?” inquired 
Conway, almost impatiently. “We must 
deal with facts, not with probabilities. For 
my part, I should walk on straight to my 
goal over a hundred Lavinia Cranes. You 
agree with me that this seal is an important 
link of proof? ” 

“ Yes ; I see that clearly.” 

“ Then the next thing is to follow tho 
track of inquiry which it opens. Can you 
tell me whether or not Miss Crane has been 
in Edgerton ? ” 

“She has been away from home — I 
chance to know that much. Mrs. Crane 
sends every day to inquire about mamma; 
and she sent this morning. The servant 
also brought a basket of fruit ; so I had to 
see her, and return a message of acknowl- 
edgment. When I asked about the family, 
she said they were all well except Lavinia, 
who got home late last night, and was feel- 
ing badly from travelling.” 

“ Travelling from where ? ” 

“ She did not say, and I did not inquire.” 
“How can I find out? It is important 
that I should know.” 

Constance thought a moment, and then 
said : “ Perhaps Nancy can tell. Servants 
are such go.ssips, that she may have heard.’ 

“ Will you call her and inquire ? ” 


ALL AT SEA. 


121 


“Well, no,” she said, after a second’s 
consideration. “ That might excite her sus- 
picions. I think I had better go and find 
out in an informal way whether she knows 
or not.” 

“ Go, by all means.” 

She went, and returned in a few min- 
utes, with not a little suppressed excitement 
in her face. Before she spoke, Conway saw 
that the detective fever had begun to take 
possession of her also. 

“ Nancy says that the servant told her 
that Lavinia had been to Edgerton,” she 
said, “ and also hinted that it was likely she 
would be married soon — to Mr. Harding. 
Stop ! Don’t think you have gained an im- 
portant step ” — for Conway made an excla- 
mation — “I have just remembered some- 
thing which overthrows your whole ground- 
work of proof. Lavinia and Mabel had 
seals exactly alike.” 

“You cannot be in earnest.” 

“ I arn, though — entirely in earnest. I 
remember distinctly the day Mabel bought 
that seal, and, as it chanced, Lavinia came 
into the shop while she was doing so. 
There were only two of them, and she 
bought the other.” 

“ But is it likely that her seal would 
have Mabel’s initials on it? ” 

“Ah, I* had forgotten that! No, of 
course not.” - 

“ And if she had really no share in the 
matter, her seal will be still in her own pos- 
session.” 

“But how are we to find out whether 
or not it is ? ” 

“Easily enough — by sending and asking 
to borrow it. You can do so on almost any 
pretext, or by means of the truth, if you 
prefer it. Write a note; tell her you have 
received a letter professing to come from 
Mabel, and wish to identify the seal. Un- 
der those circumstances, she cannot refuse 
to lend hers, if she has it.” 

Constance was that rare pearl among her 
sex — a woman who never wasted words. 
There was a writing-desk on a side-table, 
and she went to it at once. In five minutes 
the note was written and dispatched. It 
was half an hour at least before an answer 
was returned. Then Nancy came in with a 


note which Constance opened hurriedly. 
Having done so, she found that this was what 
it had taken Miss Crane half an hour to 
say: 

“ Deae Constance : I regret very much 
that I have not the seal you wish to borrow. 
I gave it to a friend some weeks ago, but 
perhaps you are not aware that only a 
day or two before Mabel ” — [‘ disappeared ’ 
scratched out, and ‘ left home ’ substituted] 
— “I exchanged seals with her, she liking 
best the setting of mine, and I much prefer- 
ring the setting of hers. You may remem- 
ber that there was a difference between 
them in this respect, and, by referring to the 
impression of which you speak, you can ea- 
sily tell whether it was made by my seal — 
that is, the one wliich is hers now — for the 
rim of it had sharp points, while hers was 
quite plain. I am very sorry to hear that 
the letter to wliich you allude is not genu- 
ine. It would be such a relief to Mrs. Lee 
and myself, and indeed to all of us, if we 
could only hear some reliable news of our 
dear Mabel. With kindest regards to your 
mother, 

“ I am sincerely, 

“ Lavinia Ceane. 

“ P. S. — Perhaps, to avoid any misun- 
derstanding, I had better say that the friend 
to whom I gave the seal was Mr. Harding. 
He always admired the device very much, 
and desired to use it in sealing his letters to 
me. The last letter I had from him (re- 
ceived while I was in Edgerton) was sealed 
with it.” 

Constance had read the note aloud ; and 
now, laying it down, she looked at her com- 
panion. “ Well,” she said, “have we gained 
any thing ? ” 

“We have gained the knowledge that if 
Miss Crane is acting at all in the business, 
she is acting as a blind instrument, or else 
that she is playing a very deep game,” he 
answered, dryly. 

“ Why do you think so ? ” 

“I think so mainly because of this note. 
It is too candid, and goes too irroich into de- 
tail. Perhaps I am morbidly prone to sus- 
picion — I am perfectly aware that my mind 


122 


MABEL LEE. 


is not in a condition to judge fairly just 
now — but it looks badly to me.” 

“ But, if your suspicions were well 
founded, would she have mentioned the let- 
ter she received from Mr. Harding while she 
was in Edgerton? ” 

“ Hot if she had been wise, undoubtedly. 
It is probable, however,- that she may have 
suspected our knowledge of it, and wished 
by this means to throw us off the scent.” 

“ O Mr. Conway ! ” — Constance fairly 
shrank — “ remember, before you say such 
things that she may be — that there is every 
reason to believe she is — as innocent as you 
or I.” 

“ If she is innocent, our suspicions will 
not harm her,” said Conway, coolly. “If 
she is guilty, in any degree, let her look to 
it. As I told you before, we cannot stop to 
weigh individual trustworthiness in such a 
matter as this. Any detective will tell you 
that in these cases they generally find the 
criminal among those who are least sus- 
pected, who are most held above suspicion.” 

“ How horrible ! ” 

“Yea, horrible, but true. Now, do you 
see what our next step should be ? ” 

“ An examination of the seal on the let- 
ter, of course.” 

“ Yes, an examination of the seal on the 
letter. Until that is done, we cannot move 
a step farther.” ' 

“ And that cannot be done until we hear 
from Francis.” 

“ No. So it is that, with the best pos- 
sible motives, Mr. Nowell has made himself 
a hinderance instead of a help to search. 
Sorely against my inclination, I will wait 
one week for that envelope. If, at the end 
of that time, he has not returned, and is not 
heard from, I shall start for Virginia.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

BEOKEN DOWN. 

The sun of a hot August day was fast 
sinking to its rest, when a very tired and 
dusty traveller entered a small Virginia 
village, and, instead of proceeding to the 
hotel which swung a conspicuous sign across 


the principal street, stopped to ask a passer- 
by where he would find the residence of the 
Rev. Mr. Harding ; and, after receiving the 
information, rode away in that direction. 
It proved to be a substantial house of red 
brick, situated in a grove of elms, in the 
suburbs of the town — with a clean gravel- 
walk leading up to the front door, a bright 
brass plate and knocker, and a general air 
of respectability and comfort. The traveller 
left his horse at the gate, went up the walk, 
knocked at the door, and found his knock 
almost immediately answered by a lady in 
a black-silk dress and^ white-lace cap, who 
came rustling down the passage toward him 
— a lady whom he immediately identified as 
a certain sombre terror of his childhood. 

“ Is Mr. Harding — Mr. Cyril Harding, I 
mean — at home, madam ? ” he asked, un- 
covering at her approach, 

A pair of stony eyes viewed him with 
evident suspicion and lurking recognition — 
while a stony voice answered, coldly: 

“ My son is not at home at present. He 
has gone out. But if you will leave your 
name,, or call again in the course of an hour 
or two — ” 

“ Pardon me,” interrupted the stranger 
quickly ; “ but if you will allow me, I should 
prefer to wait for him. Is he likely to be 
long in coming ? ” 

“I cannot say. Is your business with 
him important ? ” 

“Very important.” 

“ In that case, I may be able to assist 
you. I am his mother, sir.” 

“I am happy to make your acquaint- 
ance,” said the gentleman, with a bow and 
a smile ; “ but my business is with your son 
alone.” 

“ He may not return for some time.” 

“Still, if you will allow me, I will wait 
for him.” 

Mrs. Harding drew back, slightly discom 
fited. This impenetrable courtesy and 
steady determination were too much for her 
She opened a door on one side. 

“You can wait here,” she said icily— 
and closed it on him. 

Warm as the day was, and heated as he 
had been, he absolutely shivered in the cold, 
vault-like atmosphere that rushed over him, 


BROKEN DOWN. 


123 


when he entered the room — a room, the 
blinds of which were all closed, the sashes 
down, the furniture muffled up in linen, and 
the general appearance one of cold, sepul- 
chral solemnity. He looked round him 
silently, and had only noted this much when 
the door opened again, and the stony face 
looked in. 

“ When my son comes, who shall I tell 
him is waiting? ” Mrs. Harding asked, in the 
same forbidding voice, and with the same 
forbidding manner. 

“ An old acquaintance, if you please,” 
the other answered. 

“ Hothing more ? ” 

“Nothing more.” 

The door closed again — this time with a 
perceptible bang — and then an angry rustle 
of skirts was heard retreating down the pas- 
sage. 

i\t least three-quarters of an hour elapsed 
before it opened again, and this time Cyril 
Harding himself stood on the threshold. He 
looked a little disturbed — for it is not, at 
any time, an encouraging thing to hear that 
a stranger, who declines to give his name, 
is waiting for one — but this slight uncer- 
tainty and trepidation changed to downright 
startled astonishment when he saw who 
that stranger was. 

“ Good Heavens ! ” he said. “ Conway ! 
— Is it you ? ” 

“Yes, it is I,” answered the other. 
“ You did not expect me, I dare say. Shut 
the door and come in. I have something to 
say to you.” 

“ But what has brought — ” 

“Shut the door, and you shall soon. hear 
enough. What I have to say is not to be 
said for the benefit of the house.” 

The tone of command was not to be dis- 
obeyed, excepting by stronger nerves than 
those of Mr. Harding. He looked a little 
apprehensively over his shoulder — muttered 
a word or two, it seemed — and came in; 
closing the door behind him. His cousin 
met him in the middle of the floor, but, 
instead of touching the hand he extended,, 
threw an open letter down on the centre- 
table which stood between them. 

“Don’t off'er to shake hands with me,” 
he said. “Read that.” 


“ What — what is it ? ” 

“ Read it, and you will see.” 

Apparently lost in surprise, Mr. Harding 
took it up, and Conway watched him nar- 
rowly as he read the forged letter. When 
he came to the last word, he folded the 
sheet, and laid it down again. The first 
shock was over, and his usual formality of 
speech and bearing had returned to him. 

“I am very glad to hear this news. It 
is truly gratifying,” he said. “ I congratu- 
late my uncle, and the family of the young 
lady — I suppose I should also congratulate 
yourself. But I am at a loss to know how 
the matter concerns me.” 

“ Perhaps you will know when I tell you 
that the day for this simulation is over,” 
said Conway, sternly. “ I don’t impugn 
your wisdom in writing, or causing that let- 
ter to be written, Mr. Harding; but I do 
wonder that you did not take more pains 
to guard against detection than you have 
done.” 

“ I write ! — I cause to be written ! — Mr. 
Conway, you had better take care what you 
are saying.” 

“ Bah ! ” said Conway, with the sneer 
which Mr. Blake specially detested and 
called “the captain’s own” — “ bah ! do you 
think to intimidate me ? You might know 
better by this time. There is no good in 
losing temper, Mr. Harding. I have come 
here for information : and I mean to have 
it — if I have to drag it out of your throat ! 
If you were not the person directly con- 
cerned in the abduction of Mabel Lee, you 
had a share in it ; and I am here to give you 
warning that it will be your best policy to 
acknowledge every thing at once. If she 
is still unharmed, and you can assist us to 
rescue her, I am empowered by my uncle tc 
promise that there will be no legal prosecu 
tion. But if you refuse — ” 

“I will not hear another word!” cried 
Mr. Harding, losing all his formality in the 
excitement and passion of the moment. “ 1 
will not hear another word ! How do 
you dare to come here to my own homo, 
and insult me in this manner ? I have onlj 
one answer for you — leave the house ! ” 

“ I will leave it when I have finished 
what I have to say,” answered Conway. 


124 


MABEL LEE. 


“You Lad better bear me out, and count 
the consequences of refusal, before you do 
refuse. I can assure you of one thing — it 
will go bard with you if I leave tbis bouse 
without that for which I came into it. 
Understand clearly, that I only apply to 
you, as a means of saving time. The clew 
is in my hands, and you know me well 
enough to be sure that I will follow it up 
like a blood-hound. I will never weary — 
I will never give up, until I have found her. 
And when I do — mark my words, Cyril 
Harding — when I do, you shall be called to 
a reckoning such as you never even dreamed 
of! How do you cbmprehend the choice 
offered you ? — and will you tell me your de- 
cision ? ” 

“ In all my life,” said Mr. Harding, “ I 
— I never heard any thing to equal this! 
Do you know that such language is action- 
able, Mr. Conway ? I can bear a great deal 
— my Christian profession obliges me to bear 
a great deal — but to be deliberately accused 
of abducting a young lady for whom I have 
the highest esteem ; and of forging letters 
— this is more than even Christianity de- 
mands that I should endure. Once more I 
must request you to leave the house.” 

“You have decided, then?” said Con- 
way. “ Stop ! — I give you five minutes 
more. For your own sake, you had better 
think again.” 

“ I will not think a moment. Leave the 
house! ” 

“ You absolutely refuse to give me any 
information about Mabel Lee ? ” 

“ I have no information to give — not a 
word. I know nothing about her. I have 
no doubt the letter is genuine. I have no 
doubt but that she has eloped — Don’t, 
Conway ! Don’t touch me, or I shall call 
assistance.” 

He retreated backward, and his voice 
rose into a cry, at the last words, for, almost 
unconsciously, Conway had made a step 
toward him, with a flash of the eye that 
plainly meant mischief. In a moment — be- 
fore the latter could speak — the door was 
burst wide open, and Mrs. Harding rushed 
into the room, and threw her arms about 
her son. 

“Leave the house this instant! ” she 


cried, addressing Conway over her shoulder. 
“ How dare you come here to threaten and 
attack my son? Is it not enough that you 
have injured him already by your scheming, 
and made my brother deprive him of his 
rightful inheritance, to give it to you — you, 
an adventurer, a swindler, a murderer, I 
dare say, if the truth were only known, you 
have made away with the girl yourself-- that 
is the truth ot the matter— and you have 
come here to charge my son, my honorable, 
high-minded son, with your own crime ! 
Leave the house — or I shall call the servants 
to put you out ! ” 

“ Call them, by all means, madam,” said 
Conway. “ They will be excellent witnesses 
of the charge I make against your' honor- 
able, high-minded son. I did not know 
that he had stationed you at the key-hole, 
or I might have assured him sooner that I 
have not the least intention of personal 
violence. Since you have assisted at the 
entire interview, I suppose I need not give 
you any explanation of the business that has 
brought me here.” 

“ I know that if I had been in my son’s 
place, I would have made you leave the 
house, before you had said five words.” 

He bowed — smiling slightly. 

“Allow me to acknowledge your kind 
consideration. I will not intrude upon your 
hospitality any longer than to repeat the 
warning I have already given. My uncle, 
outraged as his feelings have been, is averse, 
for the sake of his family honor, to making 
a public scandal of the matter, by instituting 
legal proceedings against your son — if this 
course can be avoided. If you desire either 
his personal safety, or honorable reputation, 
you had better counsel him to regard — ” 

He was interrupted here by his listener 
who, forsaking her son for a moment, 
rushed to the door, and sent her voice echo- 
ing through the house. 

“Mr. Harding — Mr. Harding!” she 
cried ; “ come here this instant ! ” 

The words were like a spell. Before the 
instant had elapsed, a pair of slippers 
shuffled hastily down the passage, and an 
elderly edition of Cyril Harding, in dress 
ing-gown and white hair, stood in the door 
Plainly, Mr. Harding, senior, had been trained 


BROKEN DOWN. 


125 


ill a good scTiool of prompt marital obe- 
dience. 

“You called me, my dear?” he said, 
peering through his spectacles at the group 
before him. 

“ Certainly I called you,” the lady an- 
swered, sharply. “ If you had any ears, Mr. 
Harding, you would not have needed to be 
called! If you had any spirit, you would 
not have stayed in your study writing, while 
your son was being murdered, and your 
wife insulted! ” 

“Murdered! — insulted! ” said Mr. Hard- 
ing, gazing, in a state of bewilderment, 
from his son, who seemed in excellent pres- 
ervation, to his wife, who was evidently in 
a towering passion. “ My dear, what do 
you mean? I knew nothing — my study-door 
was closed — and, though I heard your voice, 
I thought you were only reproving one of 
the servants, as usual, and — ” 

“ And I might have been insulted or any 
thing else, for all you knew to the contrary ! 
So long as you are left in peace, you care 
nothing — Do you know who that is? Just 
answer me — do you know who that is ? ” 

“No, my dear,” replied the reverend 
gentleman, hesitatingly, as he looked at 
Conway, toward whom his wife pointed. 
“The room is so dark that I cannot see dis- 
tinctly ; but I do not think I am acquainted 
with the gentleman.” 

“Let me tell you, then, that, while you 
were mooning over your sermon, your son 
might have been killed if I — I, a weak wom- 
an — had not come to his defence. Oh, you 
need not look at me in that way ! It is true 
— as true as that this man standing here is 
Philip Conway.” 

At the sound of that name, Mr. Harding 
recoiled, as if a loaded pistol had been pre- 
sented at his head. 

“ God bless my soul ! ” he gasped. “ Is 
this true ? ” 

He looked at Conway, and Conway 
bowed, as he had bowed before in acknowl- 
edgment of Mrs. Harding’s desire to see 
him put out of the house. 

“ That is my name, sir,” he said. “ But 
there is really no necessity for you to look 
BO alarmed. I do not intend to blow up 
your house ; and — although I regret the ne- 


cessity of contradicting a lady — I have had 
no intention of murdering your son, or in- 
sulting your wife. I am glad to give you 
this personal assurance, and I am also glad 
to see you for another reason. No doubt 
you have heard of the abduction of Miss 
Lee, which took place during your son’s 
visit at Seyton House. Are you aware tha* 
he rests under a grave suspicion of being 
implicated in it? ” 

“Who? My son ? — Cyril? You must 
be mad, sir ! ” 

“My madness has excellent method in it 
then — as he will learn.” 

“ But — good Heavens ! — Cyril, you never 
mentioned this to me. Who suspects you 
of such a thing ? ” 

“You will have to ask Mr. Conway 
that,” answered Cyril, with as much dig- 
nity as a man can be expected to possess 
who is penned in a corner, and mounted 
guard over, by a ponderous black silk ; “ I 
know nothing about it, excepting that he 
has come here in this unexpected manner, 
and insulted me by the most groundless 
charges, and outrageous threats.” 

“ Perhaps Mr. Conway will explain him- 
self? ” said the father, turning round. 

“With pleasure, sir,” answered Conway. 
“ As a first step to doing so, will you oblige 
me by reading this? ” 

He extended the forged letter as he 
spoke, and Mr. Harding was about to take 
it, when his wife interfered — shortly and 
sharply. 

“ Are you going to listen to charges like 
this, Mr. Harding? Are you going to read 
a vile thing of that sort, with your inno- 
cent, slandered son standing by? Tear the 
letter up before his face, and turn him out 
of the house ! ” 

“ But, my dear,” expostulated the hus- 
band, “ if I don’t read the letter, how am I 
to know what Cyril is accused of? ” 

“ What do you want to know for ? Af- 
ter his uncle’s mind has been poisoned 
against him, and he has been turned out of 
his lawful rights, are you going to let the 
same viper poison your mind too ? ” 

“ Sir,” said the viper in question, “I be- 
lieve I heard you mention your study. If 
you will allow me to accompany you there, 


126 


MABEL LEE. 


I may succeed better in placing the matter 
before you.” 

“ Accompany him there ! — accompany 
him there indeed!” cried Mrs. Harding, 
-vvhose voice rose higher every moment. 
“ What do you think him, that he should 
take you off in secret, to hear slanders 
against his son ? ” 

“ What I think him, madam, is not of the 
least importance,” Conway said. “But I 
perceive that I have little chance of being 
heard.” 

Before Mrs. Harding could reply, her son 
gave his first and only indication of manly 
courage, by putting her aside and stepping 
forward. 

“ This matter concerns me,” he said, 
with his usual pomposity, but also with a 
touch of dignity quite unusual. “ I am per- 
fectly willing that Mr. Conway should lay 
it, in all its bearings, before my father. It 
will be strange if he has found one proof 
against me half as strong as the many that 
were brought against him, before I left 
Seyton House. — Hush, mother ! — let him 
speak.” 

Turning to the father, Mr. Conway spoke 
accordingly. His language was forcible, 
and colored necessarily, though unconscious- 
ly, by his own convictions. He began with 
Mr. Harding’s own confession that he had 
overheard the declaration on the island, 
which (according to general belief) de- 
stroyed his hopes of the inheritance. This 
link in the chain of evidence seemed very 
slight, he said, but it weighed heavily when 
taken in connection with after - events. 
Then came the history of those after- 
events: the mysterious disappearance of 
Mabel ; the fact that Mr. Harding alone had 
been absent on that afternoon; the testi- 
mony of the man who aflSrmed that he had 
met one of the Seyton House trio of gentle- 
men Avith Mabel on the river ; and, lastly, the 
forged letter, and the seal which her sister 
at once identified as Mabel’s, and which a 
witness (he did not say who) was prepared 
to prove had been in Mr. Harding’s posses- 
sion at the very time the letter was written. 

It was, on the whole, a poor array of 
evidence — for of course the subtler part of 
it, the acts, and words, and tones, that had 


weighed the most with Mr. Seyton, and 
even with Conway himself, could have no 
place in this cold resume of facts. Regarded 
from an entirely dispassionate point of view, 
the most unprejudiced parents alive might 
have been excused if they had listened a? 
incredulously as Mr. and Mrs. Harding did. 

“ Apparently your evidence can bo 
summed up very briefly,” said the former. 
“ My son chanced to take a ride on the af- 
ternoon of the young lady’s disappearance, 
and, on the strength of that accidental ab- 
sence, you identify him with an unknown 
man who was seen on the river. As for 
the letter, it appears that you charge him 
with forging that, merely because the im- 
pression on its seal bore some real or fan- 
cied resemblance to another seal which (as 
he has told you) was given him by another 
young lady. Really, Mr. Conway, if you 
have come two hundred miles to tell this 
story, I am only sorry that you should have 
taken so much trouble for nothing.” 

Conway took up the open letter, folded 
and returned it to his pocket, before he an- 
swered. Then he spoke very quietly : 

“The array of evidence looks very slight 
to you, sir, of course, and equally, of course, 
your feeling is all with your son. I have 
done my part, in placing the matter before 
you. Once more — ” and he turned to his 
cousin, as he spoke — “ do you refuse to 
make a compromise, while there is yet time? 
Remember that, after I have crossed this 
threshold, your opportunity is past. After 
to-day, I shall speak by the law, if the law 
will reach you. If not, by another and even 
surer means.” 

He looked keenly into the face before 
him, but he read there not even so much as 
one token of yielding. It was very white, 
and the lips quivered a little, as if from 
physical fear; but that was all. Evidently, 
if this man were possessed of the secret, he 
felt so secure of the absence of any serious 
proof against him that it would be neces- 
sary, to wring it from him by a sterner 
method than this had been. 

“You are resolved?” Conway asked, 
without removing his eyes. 

And the answer came, exactly like those 
answers that had gone before. 


ON THE TRACK. 


127 


“ There is nothing to resolve. I am ig- 
norant of every tiling you wish to know. 
As for your accusations and threats, I leave 
them to fall back on your own head, when 
you learn their injustice.” 

Conway smiled bitterly. 

“ That is a degree of Christian charity 
worthy of so eminent a follower of the 
Pharisees. Hear my wish now : that when 
the bolt of discovery falls — as it will fall, 
sooner or later — it may blight every human 
soul connected with the perpetration of this 
dastardly outrage ! ” 

All the passion within him — the passion 
he had curbed so steadily throughout the 
interview — broke forth in those words. 
There was something fairly tragic in his 
tone, as he hurled them like a curse at the 
assembled family ; and then, turning round, 
quitted the room without another word. 

Late that night, he entered his chamber 
at the hotel, and, closing the door, sank 
wearily into a chair. All the evening, he 
had been busily engaged in endeavoring to 
discover every thing possible about Cyril 
Harding’s daily life — his habits, his occupa- 
tions, even his most trivial customs — but it 
had all proved vain and fruitless labor. He 
had failed to find one single circumstance 
to help him in his search. From all that he 
could learn, the life of the man whom he sus- 
pected seemed fair and open as the day — a 
page for all the world to read. Some people 
spoke laughingly of his austere piety and 
formal manners, but even these appeared 
to respect, though they laughed ; and no 
one ventured to say that his character was 
not above the faintest breath of rei)roach. 
At the very outset of his undertaking, Con- 
way seemed to have encountered an insu- 
perable obstacle to further discovery. 

“ I feared it would be so,” he muttered 
to himself, as he sat moodily staring at the 
lloor. “ The clew is so slight, the evidence 
80 frail — what else could I expect? I knew 
that intimidation was almost the only hope; 
and it failed completely. I counted too 
much on his cowardice, and too little on his 
sagacity, it seems — yet who was to think 
that he possessed any of the last? The 
question now is, What to do next? Truly 


I think it would puzzle the best detective in 
the Paris force. There is one thing, out of 
all the mist, which I see clearly — my own 
determination never to relinquish the pur- 
suit.” 

It was undoubtedly his determination, 
but none the less he felt, to the very core of 
his heart, that the clew had suddenly and 
entirely broken down in his hands. 


CHAPTER XXIH. 

ON THE TEACK. 

“ I DO not tell you where I am going, for 
I hardly know myself,” had been Howell’s 
assurance to his cousin, in the brief note he 
left behind, when he took his sudden de- 
parture from Ay re. Yet, despite this assur- 
ance, he never halted or tarried on his jour- 
ney until he found himself in the city of 
Charleston. Arriving in the morning, he 
arranged his toilet, and dispatched his 
breakfast with a degree of uncivilized haste 
of which he had never before in his life 
been guilty; and, sallying forth from his 
hotel, soon paused at the bourne which had 
brought him so far — a small stationer’s shop 
at the upper, least fashionable part of King 
Street. 

The buildings all around were wonder- 
fully dark and dingy Jew stores, principally 
with pinchbeck jewelry in the windows, 
and signs promising cheap bargains on the 
outside ; but this little spot possessed a 
brightness and order of its own, that made 
it seem almost like an oasis in the desert. 
It was exceedingly tiny, but a liberal use of 
bright paint had so freshened up the inte- 
rior, that it looked as inviting as the cav- 
ernous entrances near by were the reverse ; 
while the window was arranged with a 
taste and a skill which are often lacking in 
the largest and most elegant of American 
shops. It made a very effective display of 
fancy stationery, and the many trifles sup- 
posed to be connected therewith — trifles 
such as papier-mache writing-desks, ink- 
stands of rare and curious device, ivory 
paper-knives, crystal paper-weights, and all 
the extensive paraphernalia of writing at 


128 


MABEL LEE. 


ease. A Frencli name was lettered over 
the door, and when Nowell entered he saw 
that it was a French face whose bright 
brown eyes looked up at him from behind 
the counter. The face belonged to a short, 
stout figure, and would have been extreme- 
ly youthful in appearance if the white hair 
surrounding it had not imparted something 
of the aspect of age. The 'fresh, rosy com- 
plexion contrasted with this very well, how- 
ever, and a beaming smile seconded the 
wonderfully perfect courtesy of his nation, 
as the little man crossed his hands one over 
the other and bowed deeply. 

“Votre servant, sare,” he said, in very 
broken English. “ Vat may I haf ze honor 
to show you, sar ? ” 

Nowell glanced round him in some per- 
plexity — he had come so little prepared for 
his part, that he did not even possess a 
ready-made want. 

“ I would like to see some writing- 
paper,” he said, after a pause, “and — and 
envelopes, if you please.” 

“Papaire and envelopes,” repeated the 
little man. “ Oui, oui ; I haf zem, sare, and 
of ze best. Will you haf zem to mach ? ” 

“To do what? ” asked Nowell, in some 
surprise. 

“ To mach — is not that what you would 
say ? To be alike — to suit.” 

“Oh, to match. Yes — no — that is, I 
would prefer them like this.” And he laid 
down on the counter the envelope in which 
the forged letter had been enclosed, but 
which he had not returned with that letter. 

The Frenchman bent his head to exam- 
ine it, and then looked up again. 

“Oui,” he said, “I haf plenty like dat, 
m’sieur. Dat corned from my stock.” 

“ Yes, I know it did. I saw your mark 
on it. And have you more of the same 
sort? ” 

“Plenty,” repeated the little stationer, 
with a sigh. “ I haf no mooch custom, sare. 
Zese peoples zey likes bigger shops zan 
mine; and yet, m’sieur, zey finds no such 
papaire elsewhere as what I keeps ; for I 
brought it viz me from Paris.” 

“You are lately from Paris, then?” 
asked Nowell, who had his own reasons for 
desiring to make the small foreigner as 


communicative as possible. The bright 
brown eyes looked up at him, sadly enough 
in reply. 

“ Oui, m’sieur. I am vaire lately from 
Paris. I vas in trouble dere, and one kind 
good countrymans of yours, he lends me ze 
money for to come way, and I comes here 
where he lifs and can help me. Are zese 
ze envelopes, sare ? ” 

“ Yes, these are the ones,” said Nowell, 
comparing the envelope in his hand with 
the contents of a box which the Frenchman 
placed before him. “These are the ones. 
You can put me up two packages. The box 
seems quite full ; so I suppose you have not 
sold any of them before.” 

“ Vaire few, saire — vaire few. Zese peo- 
ples zey know noting whatevare about good 
stationerie. Zey minds noting about bow 
zey writes zere lettaire — nor what zey 
writes zem on. Va! So zey can be reads, 
zat is all zey cares. Now, zese are vaire 
fine envelopes, sare.” 

“Yes,” said Nowell. “I don’t’ know 
much about such things, but I can see that 
they are fine.” 

“Well, sare, you may not believe me, 
but I haf sold them to but one person before 
you corned — but one person, sare.” 

“And who was that?” asked Nowell, 
eagerly, for the next winding of the clew 
seemed almost within his grasp — far nearer 
than he had dared to hope it would be. 

“ Zat person,” said the little Frenchman, 
busily tying up the bundle of envelopes, as 
he spoke, “ zat person, sare, was my goot 
freent vat helped me here — my freent vat 
help me yet all the time. Is zis all sare ? 
You said papaire, did you not ? ” 

“Paper, yes,” answered Nowell, has- 
tily. “The finest you have. This will 
do.” 

“No, sare; zat will not do,” said the 
stationer, removing from under his hand 
some paper that had been lying on the count- 
er. “You zay you want ze finest I haf. 
Zat am not ze finest I haf, sare. I haf oder 
much finer, sare.” 

So Nowell stood by, possessed with the 
very spirit of impatience, while he opened 
and shut drawers innumerable, shaking his 
head over each. “ Non,” he went on say- 


ON THE TRACK. 


129 


ing. “ Zis not de finest,” until at last the 
scant patience of his customer gave way. 

“ That will do,” he said. “ Any will do,' 
1 assure you. I am in haste. I really can- 
not wait — ” 

“ Ah, here it is ! ” exclaimed the other, 
who was not paying the least attention to 
him, but had suddenly jerked out a drawer, 
and found what he wanted. “ Here it is, 
sarel ” he said, bringing forward some 
creamy-tinted paper, which bore the finest 
Paris mark, and looked as if it was meant 
for nothing hut hillet-doux purposes. Now- 
ell had about as much use for it as he w'ould 
have had for the pen from a pigeon’s wing, 
and the violet-colored ink which should 
properly have accompanied it. But he 
bought largely, nevertheless, and then felt 
at liberty to bring the conversation back 
to the question which was tormenting 
him. 

“Your friend, who helped you to come 
over from Paris, must be a very kind per- 
son,” he said. “ Is he a Charlestonian ? ” 

“ Oui, m’sieur,” said the little man, with 
a grateful moisture shimmering at once over 
his eyes. “ He is a Sharlestonian. He lifs 
here, and he is vaire goot — vaire, vaire goot, 
in’sieur.” 

“ Perhaps I know him. You would not 
mind telling me his name, would you? ” 

“ Non, m’sieur. Vhy should I mind ? 
Efery one must know him to be a goot man. 
Le bon Dieu knows it, I am zure. He is 
not—” 

“ But I thought you were going to tell 
me his name? ” 

“ Oui ; and so I am. His name is Mon- 
sieur Ainslie.” 

“ I knew it,” said Nowell, half aloud. 

And, strange to say, he felt that he had 
known it all along — known that the poor 
little foreigner’s generous patron could only 
be the man whom he had met as Mr. Sey- 
ton’s guest, and Philip Conway’s friend. 
Y"et, now that the confirmation of this 
knowledge placed the next winding of the 
clew in his hands, he saw, with bitter dis- 
appointment, how far he was from the end. 
Ainslie ! He could not, by any stretch of 
imagination, connect Mabel’s disappearance 
with Mm. Ever since he entered the shop, 

9 


he had expected to hear of him ; and yet, 
now that he had done so, he felt that it was 
impossible to accept the conclusion pre- 
sented. Despite his being Conway’s friend, 
he had liked him cordially, and trusted him 
entirely ; and he could not bring himself to 
believe — what he would have suspected 
quickly enough of any other man — that he 
had any share in the abduction. The en- 
velope might have passed from his posses- 
sion to that of his friend, in the most natu- 
ral manner possible. And yet, perhaps, it 
was his duty to follow out the clew as it 
was presented to him; or, in other words, 
to track Ainslie down, as a means of un- 
masking the friend for whom he might be 
acting. He hesitated only a moment over 
this doubt ; then he turned round to the lit- 
tle shopkeeper with a good deal of the 
brusque sharpness that, young as he was, 
made witnesses tremble before his cross- 
examinations. 

“ I know Mr. Ainslie well,” he said, 
“ and I am anxious to see him. Can you 
give me his address ? ’’ 

“ Oui, m’sieur, viz plasir. But, if you 
vish to see him vaire soon, ze club might 
be—” 

“ I wish to see him privately. I don’t 
care to go to the club. Where does he 
live ? ” 

“He lifs, m’sieur, at No. — , Rootledge 
Street. You will find him zere most times, 
vhen he is not at the club.” 

Nowell made his acknowledgments, 
and, pocketing his paper, left the shop. As 
he walked slowly and meditatively down 
King Street, he resolved in his mind what 
his best course of action would be. He 
must see Ainslie — there was no question as 
to that. One critical examination of the 
man’s face would enable him, he doubted 
not, to judge whether he was guilty of the 
complicity in Conway’s crime, which cir- 
cumstances seemed to indicate. Satisfied 
on this point, his way w^as clear before him ; 
but at present he felt more hopelessly per- 
plexed than ever before, dark as the afiair 
had been from the first. Yes, he must see 
Ainslie — but how ? Call on him ? — and up- 
on what pretence? Seek and question him 
with an abrupt directness that miglit so 


130 


MABEL LEE. 


take him by surprise as to make his counte- 
nance betray him? Caution said no; the 
slightest manifestation of suspicion would 
be putting him on his guard. Call on him 
in a mere social way, as being accidentally 
in town upon business, and unable to deny 
himself the pleasure of renewing so agreea- 
ble an acquaintance as that of Mr. Ainslie ? 
He dismissed this thought at once, as un- 
worthy. No social treason for him ; he left 
that for Conway & Co., if Ainslie made one 
of such a firm. No, he thought, he must 
meet the man upon neutral ground; meet 
him apparently by accident ; and meantime 
he would obtain all possible information 
concerning him ; what was his character — 
what his manner of life. He had now been 
so absorbed in reverie as to pass, without 
notice, the street which he ought to have 
taken on his way back to the Charleston 
Hotel. Becoming suddenly awake to his 
surroundings, he perceived that he had 
reached the point at which King is inter- 
sected by Broad Street. He turned into the 
last named, and, not wishing again to lose 
' his way and his time by forgetfulness, was 
careful to keep his thoughts about him, as 
he traversed the square between King and 
Meeting Streets, and turned up toward the 
hotel. His eyes being open accordingly, he 
had not taken three steps after turning the 
corner, ere his attention was attracted by 
the figure of a gentleman who made one of 
a group standing on the pavement just in 
front of Hibernian Hall. When his eye 
first fell upon the man (whose back was 
• that way), he absolutely started, thinking 
. that Philip Conway was before him ; but a 
second glance showed him his mistake. 
The hair was brown, instead of black, and 
the form, though of the same height and 
general appearance, lacked the grace and 
symmetry so remarkable in that of his hated 
rival. It was Ainslie he saw. His late ab- 
sence of mind, in bringing him several 
. squares out of his way, had given him the 
accidental meeting for which he was at that 
very moment wishing. 

Slackening his pace, he had ample time 
to regain the composure of countenance 
which the first sight of Ainslie had some- 
what disturbed ; and was fully prepared for 


the interview, not only with imperturbable 
self-possession on his own part, but also to 
note carefully the#efFect which his unex- 
pected appearance would produce upon the 
other. When he was within a few yards of 
the group, it suddenly separated, three of 
the four gentlemen of which it consisted 
passing down the street, and of course 
meeting him, while the fourth, Ainslie him- 
self, went on in the opposite direction. But 
he had scarcely parted from the others, be- 
fore he turned suddenly to speak to them 
again; and he started violently, as Nowell 
could not but remark^ when he saw the 
young lawyer. That astute observer ac- 
knowledged to himself, however, that, if the 
start was caused by any thing save surprise, 
Mr. Ainslie was wonderfully quick in recov- 
ering himself. He advanced at once in the 
easiest, most graceful manner, expressing, 
in terms which, though cordial in the ex- 
treme, did not sound exaggerated, his pleas- 
ure at so unlooked-for a meeting. And all 
the while he spoke, ‘while asking about 
Nowell himself, and then inquiring after his 
other friends and acquaintances in the up- 
country, there was in his air, his voice, his 
looks, a certain respectful sadness, which, 
much more eloquently than any words he 
could have uttered, expressed his recollec- 
tion of the last days he had spent in the up- 
country, and his sympathy with the grief 
of those days. Nowell was particularly 
pleased by the tact with which he avoided 
the mention of Conway’s name ; and, thaw- 
ing a little from his ordinary fixedness of 
manner, he with perfect sincerity assured 
Mr. Ainslie that he was very glad to see 
him. 

They had walked on together while ex- 
changing these first greetings; and now 
Ainslie said, with apologetic hesitation of 
manner : 

“ I hope, Mr. Nowell, you will not think 
I take too great a liberty in asking if you 
have made any discovery yet about Miss 
Lee’s disappearance ? ” 

Nowell shook his head. “ None what- 
ever.” After a rapid mental consideration 
as to the expediency of mentioning the let- 
ter, he added: ‘‘My cousin was very much 
excited a day or two before I left home, by 


ON THE TRACK. 


131 


receiving a letter which purported to be 
from her sister. I saw at once that it was 
a forgery, and so Constance perceived, as 
soon as the fact was suggested to her.” 

‘‘ A forgery ! ” 

“ A forgery without doubt.” 

“ That is strange,” said Ainslie, thought- 
fully; “ very strange ! ” 

“ Not more so than all that preceded it,” 
answered Nowell, compelling himself by a 
great elfort to continue, or at least not to 
decline, discussing the subject — bitterly 
painful as the slightest allusion to it was to 
him. 

“ And did the letter afford no clew by 
which to detect the writer — the post-mark, 
for instance ? ” 

“ It would be a bungler, indeed, who 
would betray himself by voluntarily putting 
any thing which could afford a clew into our 
hands. The post-mark — no. Like the let- 
ter itself, it was clearly intended to blind 
inquiry. It is that of Edgerton. Of course, 
the letter was mailed there on purpose to 
give a false clew, if we had been so simple as 
to fall into the trap.” 

‘"And you have not even written to 
make inquiries of the postmaster ! I can’t 
but think — pardon me — that it might be 
well to do that.” 

“ I promised my cousin that I would sift 
the thing to the bottom, on my return home, 
if nothing had in the mean time been dis- 
covered. But no information can be gained, 
I am sure, through the medium of the post- 
office.” He paused. “I am sorry I must 
say good-morning here, Mr. Ainslie. I am 
just returning to my room ” — he motioned 
toward the Charleston Hotel, opposite to 
which they were standing — “ to prepare a 
business paper, and am engaged for the 
whole day; so that I shall not probably have 
the pleasure of seeing you again. But I am 
glad to have met you.” 

“ But you are not leaving town at once, 
I suppose? Can’t you dine with me? I 
shall be delighted to see you at my house, 
jq’o. — Rutledge Street, at any hour most con- 
venient to you, from three to eight o’clock, 
or later, if you prefer,” he added, laughingly. 

“ Thank you. I am sorry to say that it 
is impossible. I am extremeiy anxious to 


get back to Ayre ; and, the moment that I 
have concluded the business which brought 
me here, I shall leave — to-morrow morning, 
or it may be to-night.” 

Ainslie expressed his regret, seeming 
really, as he said, much disappointed at see- 
ing so little of Mr. Nowell. He even endeav- 
ored to alter the decision of that gentleman 
with regard to declining his invitation to 
dinner. But Nowell was immovable. Re- 
peating his assurance that he had an impor- 
tant business paper to write, and several 
engagements afterward that would occupy 
him all day, he shook hands, in very friendly 
spirit, apparently, and, crossing the street, 
entered the hotel. 

Ainslie stood still, looking after him, 
until he vanished within the open portal, 
then muttering, half aloud, “ I am sorry he 
would not dine with me,” he sauntered on 
up the street. 

Nowell went to his room, took out his 
writing-materials, and sat down to the table 
to go to work. But he seemed in no hurry 
to commence his task. Leaning his head on 
his hand, he went over in his mind every 
look and word of Ainslie — weighing each one 
deliberately, and then regarding them col-’ 
lectively. “Did any thing in the face or 
manner look like guilt? ” he asked himself. 
And he could remember but one thing which 
had the faintest appearance of it — that first 
start upon seeing him. Yet, as he had 
thought at the time, that might have been 
caused by surprise only. But why, suggest- 
ed Suspicion, should the mere unexpected 
sight of a stranger have excited a degree of 
surprise amounting at the moment to posi- 
tive emotion ? It was singular, assuredly, 
but not impossible. Reason answered. On 
the whole, the wished-for meeting had not 
done much to settle his opinion — had done 
nothing, in fact, for he was just as much in 
doubt now as he had been before. 

With something like a groan he lifted 
his head, and suffered his hand to fall pas- 
sively to the table. But he soon roused 
himself from this unaccustomed mood of 
dejection, and began to write, gradually re- 
gaining, as he went on, his habitual energy 
and intentness of purpose. He was making 
out a concise statement of the circumstances 


132 


MABEL LEE. 


of Mabel’s disappearance, as explanatory 
of the suspicion which he now entertained 
of Ainslie’s possible complicity in her ab- 
duction, which statement he purposed sub- 
mitting to the chief of police, in order to 
take counsel with that functionary as to the 
]>est means of proceeding in the watch 
which he intended to keep upon Ainslie’s 
movements. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

TWO HEADS AEE BETTEE THAN ONE. 

He had finished a rough draft of his 
statement, and was reading it over, striking 
out a good many superfluous words, and al- 
tering or adding a few, when he was inter- 
rupted by a knock at his door. 

“ Come in,” he said, in no very gracious 
tone ; and he muttered an exclamation of 
annoyance, wondering who his visitor could 
be as the door opened, and a servant ad- 
vanced wnth a card. He had plenty of ac- 
quaintances and friends in Charleston ; but 
he supposed that most or all of them were 
out of town at this season, and, even if they 
were in town, how should they know that 
he was there ? Surely it was not Ainslie. 

The man extended the card at the mo- 
ment. He took it, glanced at the name with 
a surprise obviously not pleasurable, and 
looked up. 

“ An old gentleman? ” he inquired. 

“Yes, sir — an oldish-looking gentle- 
man.” 

“ Show him up.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Vexatious! ” he exclaimed, as soon as 
the door closed on the man’s exit. And 
then he colored slightly, as if ashamed of 
his petulance, and pushed his papers to- 
gether, thrusting out of sight the sheet he 
had been writing. While doing this, he 
suddenly bethought him that he ouglit to 
have gone down liimself to meet his visitor, 
instead of sending the servant, and he 
hastened to repair his incivility by going at 
once. 

At the head of the stairs he was met by 
an elderly gentleman, whose warm greeting I 


made him yet more ashamed of the annoy- 
ance he felt at the idea of being inter- 
rupted. 

“ My dear Mr. Lyndsay, I am heartily 
glad to see you! ” he exclaimed, with gen- 
uine cordiality. “I did not know' you were 
on this side of the Atlantic. You must have 
arrived very lately.” 

“Yes; a week or ten days ago. I left 
my family in Virginia, at the White Sulphur 
Springs, and came down for a day or two 
to take a look at the old towm and attend to 
some business. You passed through the 
portico a moment ago,.as I stood there, and, 
something in your appearance striking me 
as familiar, I inquired your name, looked in 
the register, and, finding you were from 
Ayre, took it for granted that you must be 
my old friend Hal’s son — the little Francis 
who was in jackets the last time I saw 
him.” 

“ I remember it, and remember you 
perfectly. You have not changed percepti- 
bly. I need not ask how^ you are, you are 
looking so remarkably well.” 

“I am sorry 1 can’t return the compli- 
ment,” said Mr. Lyndsay, gravely. 

Nowell smiled and then laughed at the 
frankly critical scrutiny with which the old 
gentleman’s eye was travelling over his per- 
son from head to foot. 

“I don’t resemble my father, I have 
been told,” he remarked. 

“Not much,” answered Mr. Lyndsay, sit- 
ting down and taking oflT his gloves, for they 
w^ere by this time in Nowell’s room. “ When 
you smile, your face has the expression of 
his ; but the features are different. And I’m 
sorry to see that you are overworking 
yourself, my young friend.” He shook his 
head. “ Bad policy, believe me. You look 
ten years older than you are. You clever 
men generally want to go up-hill too fast. 
Now, take my advice, which would be your 
father’s if he W'ere living, and pull up for a 
while in the race you are running. You 
will reach the goal all the sooner, and not 
be out of breath when you get there.” 

Nowell laughed again, but his old friend 
stopped short the disclaimer he was about 
to make. “ Oh, I know all that you would 
say,” he went on, with a silencing motion 


TWO HEADS ARE BETTER THAN ONE. 


133 


of the hand ; “ but I am not speaking merely 
from the impression which your appearance 
gives me, though that would be enough. I 
have heard of you frequently. Last year I 
met young Tom Rutledge in Paris, and he 
told me that you were one of the most 
rising men in the State, both in your pro- 
fession and in politics ; hut that you were 
working yourself to death.” 

“ Tom was mistaken. I have never hurt 
myself working too hard. I’m not looking 
well just now — ” 

“Well ! You are looking about as badly 
as a man could. Thin and haggard — ” 

He paused, struck, it seemed, by some 
sudden thought, and, drawing his chair close 
to Nowell’s, laid his hand on the young 
man’s arm, saying earnestly : “Boy, your 
father was the dearest friend I ever had. 
We loved each other as brothers. If you 
are in any trouble, tell me what it is frankly. 
I may be able to help you out of it; at least 
I will try. Come, make a clean breast of 
it ! What is the matter ? ” 

“ My dear Mr. Lyndsay, I am in trouble, 
in very great trouble,” said Nowell, whose 
eyes had grown strangely moist and bright 
while his father’s friend spoke. “I will tell 
you what it is directly, but first I want to 
ask a question or two. Are you acquaint- 
ed with a young man — a native Charlesto- 
nian, I think — Ainslie by name? ” 

“ Ainslie ? ” repeated the other, with the 
puzzled look of one who is endeavoring to 
grasp a thought that is playing at hide-and- 
seek in his memory. “Ainslie I That 
name certainly — 0-h ! ” and his chin elevat- 
ed itself several inches in the air, and came 
down again, in the emphasis of that ejacula- 
tion. “ I recollect now ! I have no person- 
al acquaintance with him, but I know who 
you mean. Hum — hum ! ” he said to himself, 
looking at Nowell with a very singular ex- 
pression on his face. “Go on. What of 
him?” 

“You don’t know, then, any thing about 
his character? — whether he is a man of 
honor ? ” 

Mr. Lyndsay smiled a very peculiar 
smile. “I know absolutely nothing about 
him or his character, excepting that he is 
the son of the most unmitigated rascal I 


ever met with in the whole course of mj 
life.” 

“Ah! ” 

“You were too young at the time of 
your uncle Lee’s death to have understood 
much about it, but I suppose you have heard 
all the circumstances since? ” 

“Yes,” answered Nowell, a vague ap- 
prehension beginning to dawn upon him. 

“Well, Covington — the man who in- 
veigled Lee and a good many others into a 
bubble speculation which ruined them all — 
was the father of this Ainslie, as you call him. 
The thing was manifestly a swindle, for, 
while his friends were broken all to pieces, 
it was universally believed that he himself 
made an immense fortune by the transaction. 
A very strong feeling was excited against 
him, particularly when Lee’s death occurred 
in the manner it did. He thought it pru- 
dent to decamp for a while until the storm of 
public indignation should blow over; and so 
he went to Europe, and stayed several years. 
On his return, he changed his name to Ains- 
lie, asserting that he did so in consequence 
of having inherited a large property from a 
relative of that name in England, who made 
it a condition of the inheritance that he 
should assume his (the legator’s) patronymic. 
Nobody gave the least credit to his story. 
He did not recover the social status which 
he had forfeited, and did not long enjoy his 
fraudulent gains, dying very shortly after 
his return.” 

“ And Ainslie is his son? ” 

“Yes. Has he been playing the same 
game over again? and induced you to in- 
volve yourself in some pecuniary venture 
with him?” 

Nowell shook his head. “ It is no money 
affair,” he replied. “Whether he has any 
thing to do with it is the point on which I 
am in doubt, and which I am now trying to 
ascertain. But you shall hear all about it.” 

He recounted briefly, but clearly, the 
history of Mabel’s mysterious disappearance, 
mentioning his own suspicion of Conway — 
a suspicion entertained, he said, by the com- 
munity at large — gave a detail of the unsuc- 
cessful search, of the receipt of the letter, 
of ‘his conviction that it was a forgery, his 
discovery about the envelope, and finally of 


I 


134 


MABEL LEE. 


the uncertainty he felt as to wLether Ains- 
lie was or was not the agent of Philip Con- 
way in the abduction of his cousin. 

Mr. Lyndsay listened with the most ea- 
ger attention and interest, not interrupting 
him by a word. When he finished speak- 
ing, the old gentleman was silent for a mo- 
ment, thinking deeply. Then he said; 

“You seem fully persuaded of Conway’s 
guilt.” 

“ I am as firmly convinced of it as I am 
of my own existence.” 

“ Yet, you say, he was engaged to your 
cousin.” 

“ He says so. Well, yes — I concede that 
he was engaged to her.” 

“ Then what possible motive could have 
induced him to such a course as this ? ” 

“ 1 can’t tell, unless it was that he de- 
spaired of obtaining his uncle’s consent to 
the affair, and wished to get Mabel into his 
pow’er, and so force his own terms. Seyton 
is her godfather, and regards her as his own 
child. Conway acknowledged that he was 
aware of his uncle’s disapproval of his pre- 
tensions.” 

“ But, if he has any sense, he could not 
expect to obtain Seyton’s consent by the 
perpetration of such an outrage as this. Is 
he a fool ? ” 

“Ho. He is not very brilliant intellect- 
ually, but he’s not a fool.” 

“ And does Seyton suspect him ? ” 

Howell smiled bitterly. “ Seyton re- 
sents the mere suspicion of his guilt 'as an 
insult to himself. He has even, on the 
strength of his partisanship, declared the 
scoundrel his heir.” 

“ And the mother and sister of your 
cousin — which side do they take? ” 

“ My aunt is a weak woman, who has 
no settled opinion on the subject. She be- 
lieves every thing and nothing by turns. 
Constance, her daughter, is as much infatu- 
ated about Conway as his uncle is. But 
they two are his only partisans in the whole 
country. Everybody else believes him to 
be guilty. He was very nearly mobbed the 
day I left Ay re, so intense is the indigna- 
tion that exists against him.” 

“ Set me down as a third partisan for 
him. I can’t believe that any man, combos 


mentis^ would have acted as you think he 
has. And now let me tell you what you 
must do, Francis. I think you said you 
told Ainslie that you might leave town this 
evening.” 

“Yes,” answered Howell with a twinge 
of conscience, for he was not in the habit of 
deviating in the least degree from the strict 
spirit of truth. “Yes; I spoke on the im- 
pulse of the moment, to excuse myself from 
dining with him. In fact, I spoke sincerely ; 
for, really, while I was talking to him, I 
could not believe him capable of such infa- 
mous treachery. If be is not an honest 
man, he is the most accomplished dissimu- 
lator that it has ever been my chance to 
stumble upon.” 

“Well, he may be honest. It would be 
hard to condemn a man as a scoundrel be- 
cause his father was one. But this very 
fair-seeming which you describe looks mon- 
strously suspicious to me ; it is so much 
nice his father. Of all plausible rogues that 
I ever saw, Covington was the most plausi- 
ble. However, we’ll give him the benefit 
of a doubt, both ways. We won’t condemn 
him without proof, and we’ll take every 
means to obtain proof. And now, to return 
to the point. It is very well you did tell 
him you expected to leave, and you must 
keep your word — go off* this evening. Stop 
— hear me out, before you begin to protest I 
You intended to apply to the police ; well, 
give me the statement you have made out, 
and I will set them to work. Fortunately, 
I know the chief very well, and I’ll get him 
to detail me a man for this special service. 
I know the very man that will do ; an hon- 
est, faithful fellow, and shrewd, too, for 
whom I once did a little kindness which he 
has never forgotten. I will obtain leave of 
absence for him, put him in plain clothes, 
and set him to watch Ainslie’s movements ; 
and I myself can easily find out all about 
his character and habits. You, meanwhile, 
will take the Augusta train this evening, 
but, instead of going home, you will run 
down to Savannah, and come over in the 
next boat. If Ainslie is in this business, 
either as principal or accomplice, he will of 
course be alarmed at seeing you here. Your 
having mentioned the letter to him, and 


THE DOUBLE SEAL OF BLOOD. 




Beemed unsuspicious, may throw him off his 
guard ; but it will he safest to take every 
precaution to do so. If you leave as you 
said, without having exhibited any signs of 
suspicion, or made any inquiries, he will 
naturally suppose that your business here 
was professional — and that you have re- 
turned home in haste to investigate the 
affair of the letter. He is sure to keep his 
eye on you, and will ascertain whether you 
leave or not ; and it is very likely that he 
may be on the lookout for some days to see 
whether you return. If so, he will expect 
you by train. Coming by the boat, you 
may escape observation. I will get all the 
information I can by the time of your ar- 
rival. Let me see ; the next boat — ” 

“ But,” interposed Nowell, “ you said 
you were here for a day or two. I can- 
not think, my dear sir, of detaining 
you — ” 

“ I came to stay a day or two, but that 
makes no difference. I will write to my 
wife not to expect me until she sees me, 
and I think that, with patience, we shall be 
able to discover whether this man has had 
any connection with the outrage.” 

“But why should you take all this 
trouble and inconvenience, my dear Mr. 
Lyndsay, when I can — ” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! I would take five times 
as much, with pleasure, for little Francis 
himself,” said Mr. Lyndsay, laughing, “ and 
ten times as much for his father’s son. 
Come, we’ll walk down to Staples’s oflSce, 
and you can stay there a while, then return 
to dinner, and be off on the Augusta train. 
Where is the paper? ” 

Nowell drew it forth from where he had 
placed it, saying, “I must make a clean 
copy.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Lyndsay, smiling, as he 
glanced at the illegible-looking page ; “I 
think you had better do so. I will go at 
once and see the chief of police, and will 
then meet you at Staples’s office. You know 
his law-office, I suppose? ” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“It is now just twelve o’clock” — he 
lo'oked at his watch — “ when you have fin- 
ished writing, come down, and, if I am not 
at the office, wait for me.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE DOUBLE SEAL OF BLOOD. 

With a sensation of positive wonder at 
the strangeness of the position in which he 
had been placed by the events of the day, 
Nowell found himself, late that afternooQ, 
whirling away from Charleston as fast as 
steam could carry him. He had consented 
somewhat reluctantly to Mr. Lyndsay’s 
scheme, and now he began to doubt whether 
he had not committed a great blunder in 
consenting at all. Young as he was, he had 
been accustomed for years to judge exclu- 
sively for himself, and the habit had natu- 
rally produced a certain degree of self-confi- 
dence, as well as self-reliance. He was now 
acting under the direction of another — 
rather in opposition to, than in accordance 
with, his own judgment. That spirit of self- 
accusation, which is always strongest in con- 
scientious natures, began to exhibit symp- 
toms of becoming a very unpleasant travel- 
ling companion — suggesting various reasons 
why he ought not to have yielded to per- 
suasion instead of conviction, and number- 
less objections to the plan which he was 
pursuing. But he was not a vain man; his 
mind was open to reason. So he silenced 
the reproaching voice by addressing himself 
to a thoroughly impartial examination of 
the question, and it resulted in his entire 
approval of Mr. Lyndsay’s views in the mat- 
ter, and perfect satisfaction with himself for 
having acceded to those views. Nor was he 
shaken in this opinion, when accident 
caused a considerable detention on his way 
— the train on which he travelled having 
been brought to a stand-still about fifty miles 
from Savannah, until the debris of two 
trains — a freight and a gravel— which had 
collided half an hour before, could be re- 
moved from the road. 

It was a work requiring several hours 
for its accomplishment, and the consequence 
was, that the train was that much behind 
time, and the boat was gone when they 
finally reached Savannah. 

It was an annoying chance, and Nowell 
chafed not a little at his enforced inactivity ; 


136 


MABEL LEE. 


but there was nothing for it hut to wait for 
the next boat. And this he did with what 
patience he could command. 

,Very glad he w'as when at last he 
stepped on board the Medora, and still 
more glad when he stepped upon the wharf 
at Charleston. Almost as he did so, his 
arm was touched by a servant, who said in- 
terrogatively, “Mr. Nowell?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Carriage waiting for you, sir, to bring 
you to Mr. Lyndsay’s. Where shall I find 
your luggage, sir? ” 

Nowell pointed to a valise which one of 
the boat-hands was bringing after him. 

Driving hastily through the city to one 
of the suburbs, the carriage stopped before 
a stately old house in a fine shrubbery- 
garden. Nowell was met at the front door 
by his ‘host, with outstretched hand and 
words of warmest welcome. 

“Any news for me?” cried the young 
man, as they shook hands heartily. 

“ Nothing definite, but something cu- 
rious at least, in Ainslie’s habits. Are you 
ready for breakfast, or will you go to your 
room first ? ” 

“ Thank you, I breakfasted on the boat. 

I hope you have not waited for me.” 

“Yes; but no matter. Come in and 
keep me company in a cup of cofiee, at 
least, and I will tell you all that I have dis- 
covered. It is not much — it may be noth- 
ing — but I think it is something. The first 
thing I did after parting from you,” con- 
tinued Mr. Lyndsay, as they sat down to 
the breakfast-table, “ was to find out what 
I could about Ainslie. My inquiries, of 
course, were conducted cautiously, and all 
that I learned of his character and habits 
looked fair enough. He has been here but 
a short time, and does not intend to remain 
much longer; is much engaged with his 
man of business, making arrangements for 
a long absence in Europe and the East ; is 
convivial, but not dissipated ; very popular 
among the men he associates with ; of good 
standing at the club ; very liberal in opin- 
ion, as the phrase goes ; that is (as I have 
since ascertained), openly, even ostenta- 
tiously, a materialist. On the whole, though 
the last item of information did not give me • 


much respect for his sense, there was noth- 
ing that would warrant a suspicion of his 
honor as a man of the world. I was disap- 
pointed, I confess, and came home feeling a 
little crestfallen : rather inclined to the be- 
lief that I had sent you on a fool’s erraml, 
and was engaged in the same myself. I 
found my policeman waiting for me, having 
been detailed for special service by his 
chief, who put him at my command. 

“ ‘Well, Mike,’ said I, ‘ I’ve got a job of 
work in your line on hand ; and I asked 
your chief to let me have your services, be- 
cause I know you’ll take trouble and do it 
well for me.’_ ‘That I will, yer honor, de- 
pind upon it,’ said he, and he listened very 
attentively while I gave him an outline of 
your story, and explained what it was that 
I wanted him to do. I thought it best to 
make this expose for two reasons : In the 
first place, if a man is trustworthy, it is well 
to let him see that you place confidence in 
him — he will work with much more zeal 
and good-will, and he can, of course, w^ork 
much more intelligently, if he knows what 
he is about, than if led blindfold ; and, 
secondly, a gentleman who interests him- 
self in another gentleman’s private habits 
ought to have a very good reason to allege 
for that interest. Mike listened very atten- 
tively and without comment, until I men- 
tioned Ainslie’s name. He looked surprised 
at that. ‘What! do you know any thing 
about him ? ’ I inquired. ‘ I see him going 
to mass every mornin’, yer honor. Sure 
and he’s not the blaggard yer honor suspicts 
of this villany ? ’ ‘You must be mistaken, 
Mike,’ said I. ‘The man I’m talking of 
don’t go to mass, I’m sure.’ But, on ques- 
tioning him, I found that he was right. It 
seems that he is on his beat, which includes 
part of Broad Street, in the neighborhood 
of the cathedral, at the hour of early mas.s 
every morning; and he says that for the 
last fortnight he has seen tins man go regu- 
larly to mass when the weather was good. 
He noticed him first as ‘ a stranger who had 
the purtiest big brown eyes he ever saw ’ ” 
—Nowell’s glance lightened suddenly here 
— “and so much was the honest fellow 
struck with those eyes, and the apparent 
devotion of their owner, that he took the 


THE DOUBLE SEAL OF BLOOD. 


137 


trouble to inquire one day of an acquaint- 
ance, when Ainslie was passing him on the 
street, ‘ who that gentleman was.’ ‘ A Mr. 
Ains\ie who lives in Rutledge Street,’ he 
was informed. Mike was evidently as- 
tonished when I told him to attend mass 
himself the next morning, watch Ainslie 
carefully, and discover what he was there 
for. ‘ Why, av coorse, yer honor, he’s there 
for what everybody else goes for, to say his 
prayers.’ ‘No, he’s one of the gentry that 
don’t believe in saying prayers, Mike. You 
watch him well to-morrow morning, and 
you’ll find he don’t go there to say his pray- 
ers, and, as soon as he leaves the cathedral, 
come and report to me.’ 

“ I waited, as you may suppose, very im- 
patiently for his appearance the next morn- 
ing. ‘Yer honor’s right,’ were his first 
words; ‘he don’t go to mass to say his 
prayers.’ As I had suspected, there was a 
lady in the case, but — don’t fly off with the 
idea that this lady is your cousin, Francis! ” 
he exclaimed, as Nowell started convulsive- 
ly, and changed color. ' “ It may be — I hope 
it is Miss Lee — but there is no positive 
ground for the belief in the information ac- 
quired so far. Let me go on with my story, 
and keep quiet until you hear me out. 
W ell, Mike went to mass the next morning 
— it was the day after you left, Saturday — 
and Ainslie duly made his appearance just 
before the second mass commenced. He 
placed himself in an obscure position that 
commanded a view of the door, and, a min- 
ute afterward, two ladies entered. Ainslie 
watched them as closely as Mike watched 
him, but did not approach them. When 
they left the cathedral, he did not follow 
them, but went at once to the Charleston 
Hotel, where he usually breakfasts and reads 
the papers, it appears — and Mike came to 
me. I asked if he had noticed the ladies. 
Of course he had. He had seen all that was 
to be seen about them, which was not much, 
as both wore thick veils. But he was pret- 
ty sure that one was middle-aged, and the 
other young. I directed him to follow them 
the next morning and find out where they 
lived; and then dismissed him in haste, so 
that he should not relax in his espionage 
upon Ainslie. He caught that personage 


with his eye, as he issued from the hotel, 
after breakfast, and dogged him successfully 
all day ; saw him lounging in Russell’s for 
some time; then he spent an hour or two 
in an artist’s studio; after which betook 
luncheon at an eating-house, and went fn^m 
there to the office of his man of business, 
where he stayed until he went to his club to 
dinner. After dinner he went to his own 
house, to dress for the evening, probably ; 
and an hour or two before sunset he came 
out, and walked to a house in LegarS Street. 
He remained there only about half an hour, 
returning to Rutledge Street, where a horse 
was waiting for him. He mounted, and 
rode oflt for a canter, apparently. Mike lost 
sight of him, of course; but learned that he 
rides every afternoon. He returned at 
dusk, and entertained a party of gentlemen 
that evening. The next morning the weath- 
er was bad. There had been a rain during 
the night, and it was still cloudy and threat- 
ening. Neither Ainslie nor the ladies ap- 
peared at early mass, but, as the day became 
clear immediately after breakfast, Mike 
hoped that they might attend high mass. 
He was disappointed in his expectation, 
however. Either they M'ere not there, or 
he could not distinguish them in the crowd ; 
and he failed to catch a glimpse of Ainslie 
during the whole of that day, though he pa- 
trolled Rutledge, Legarii, King, and Meet- 
ing Streets diligently. On Monday morn- 
ing he came to me jubilant, his game in 
view again — all three at the cathedral — he 
had seen the younger lady’s face as she 
crossed herself, and he had traced them out 
to the house in Legar6 Street. He described 
the lady’s face as beautiful — ” 

“ Did he mention the color of her eyes 
and hair?” demanded Nowell, eagerly. 

“She has blue eyes, he says. He did 
not notice the color of her hair. I made 
him precede me to the street, and point out 
the house, which I know very well, as hav- 
ing been on lease for a good many years 
past. It belongs to a minor. I easily dis- 
covered the name of the agent who has it in 
charge, and from him I learned that his ten- 
ant is, or calls himself, a Mr. Garland, who 
applied to him some time about the first of 
the month of June, to rent this house, say- 


138 


MABEL LEE. 


Ing tliat he was in very ill-health — he’s a 
sickly-looking man, the agent says — and had 
been recommended by his physicians to try 
sea-air. He came to Charleston because he 
would have the benefit of a mild climate 
and good medical attendance, as well as sea- 
air ; expected to spend the fall and winter 
here, if the climate agreed with him ; but, 
as he was not sure that it would, he pre- 
ferred to take the house by the quarter — of- 
fered to pay the rent in advance, and did 
not stickle at the price. It was a straight- 
enough story, and, as the house had been 
unoccupied for some time, the agent caught 
at the idea of what promised him a good 
tenant. As a matter of form, he inquired if 
Mr. Garland would give him a city refer- 
ence, etc., and Mr. Garland immediately re- 
ferred him to Ainslie’s man of business, 
who, in reply to the agent’s inquiries, stated 
that he had been instructed by Mr. Ainslie 
to render any attention and service in his 
power to Mr. Garland, a particular friend 
of his (Ainslie’s), and that, if the agent de- 
sired it, he would stand Mr. Garland’s se- 
curity for the payment of the rent. The 
agent was satisfied, the bargain struck, and 
upholsterers were set to work at once to 
furnish a few rooms, Mr. Garland explaining 
that his family was small, consisting of him- 
self, his wife, and an orphan niece. A 
couple of Irish servants were engaged — 
cook and housemaid — and put in charge of 
the establishment; and Mr. Garland, who 
remained in town for several days to su- 
perintend these arrangements, then left to 
bring down his wife and niece, he said. 
The servants were to have every thing in 
readiness for their arrival about the middle 
of June, and at the time appointed, some- 
where about the middle of June, the agent 
did not remember the precise date, the fam- 
ily made their appearance, and had proved 
to be very quiet, respectable people. That 
was all the information which he could af- 
ford me. I asked him if the man was a gen- 
tleman. He hemmed a little over the ques- 
tion, and replied that really he couldn’t say 
as to that ; he supposed Mr. Garland might 
be considered a gentleman ; he was, at all 
events, a very gentlemanly man. 

“ My curiosity about his tenant evident- 


ly excited uneasiness in the agent’s mind, 
which I dissipated by some excuse not worth 
repeating, obtaining from him a promise 
that he would not mention my having spok- 
en to him on the subject ; and I think he 
will keep his promise. Mike has managed 
to gather up, from various sources, a few 
additional items of information as to the 
habits of the family, which are singular, un- 
questionably. Mr. Garland himself is a pro- 
fessed invalid, who never leaves the house, 
yet he has not called in medical attendance; 
the two ladies go out to church only, and 
generally to take a drive late in the after- 
noon; and do not see Ainslie when he calls 
at the house, he being the only visitor who 
does call, one of the servants told Mike, yet 
he haunts their movements at a distance. 
Decidedly suspicious all this looks, it seems 
to me. What do you think? ” 

“ That it looks sufficiently suspicious to 
justify me in taking out a search-warrant, 
and ascertaining by sight whether the young 
lady is not my cousin.” He started up, as 
he spoke. 

“ Stop, stop ! ” cried Mr. Lyndsay. “ Sit 
down again, Francis, and listen to me. You 
must not be so precipitate. Before taking 
the extreme measure of bringing in the law, 
we must stand upon surer ground than we 
do at present. We must ascertain to a cer- 
tainty that it is your cousin ; and then we 
can proceed with the search-warrant.” 

“But, meanwhile, Ainslie may take the 
alarm, and spirit her away a second 
time.” 

“ Ho danger of that. I have laid all the 
circumstances of the case before the chief of 
police, and he has taken measures to pre- 
clude the possibility of any further difficulty. 
For two days past we have waited only for 
your arrival, in order that you may identify 
the lady. If your cousin. In your name, ] 
have obtained the issue of warrants — one 
for searching the house, if necessary, the 
others for the arrest of Ainslie and his ac- 
complices. The house is watched day and 
night by a police force competent for any 
emergency, and, at the first sign of flight, 
the warrants will be served and all the par- 
ties detained.” 

Howell leaned across the table, and, tak- 


THE DOUBLE SEAL OF BLOOD. 


139 


ing Mr. Lynclsay’s hand, wrung it hard. 
“ How can I thank you? ” 

“ That ceremony is not needed between 
friends,” interrupted Mr. Lyndsay, smil- 
ing; “ so we won’t waste time at it. There 
is one other circumstance which I have not 
mentioned. On Tuesday morning I went 
myself to the cathedral, and saw the young 
lady ; and either imagination is deluding me, 
or she bears a striking resemblance to your 
uncle Lee. I knew him very well ; and, 
though it is now about twenty years since 
he died, the one glimpse which I obtained of 
that young lady’s countenance has recalled 
his face to me as vividly as if I had seen 
it only yesterday. Nor is it the face alone; 
there is something in the general appearance 
which looks to me unmistakable — a family 
resemblance in figure, air, and movement. 
Still,” he said, quickly, as he saw the eager- 
ness of Nowell, “ I may be mistaken. The 
likeness may be merely imaginary, or it 
may be accidental. Such strange coinci- 
dences frequently occur, that I am afraid to 
indulge the hope that this terrible mystery 
is about to be solved. The whole tissue of 
circumstances looks to me, I must say, 
extremely suspicious. Yet it is possible, it 
is even probable, that they can be account- 
ed for simply and reasonably. The man 
Garland may really be what he represents 
himself, and there may be some love-afiair 
between Ainslie and the young lady, which 
causes this apparent mystery.” 

“But bow do you account for the en- 
velope ? ” said Nowell. 

Mr. Lyndsay shook his head. “ That is 
the strongest point against Ainslie ; the only 
one which, to all appearance, might not be 
explained away. And we cannot tell, even 
that — ” 

“No! ” exclaimed Nowell, “that cannot 
be explained away. The other circum- 
stances, taken alone, would scarcely be 
worth a moment’s consideration ; but, re- 
garded in connection with this, they make a 
case which I should not be afraid to take 
before any court that ever sat.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Lyndsay, “contain 
vour impatience for ten, or at most twen- 
ty-four hours longer, and the mystery is 
solved.” And he went on to explain the 


plan which had been decided upon by him- 
self and the police, for efiecting this object. 
Nowell suggested a few alterations in the 
programme of proceedings, which were 
adopted, and then he was obliged to contain 
his impatience, as Mr. Lyndsay had advised, 
through hours that seemed to him intermi- 
nable — the long, long hours of that long, 
long August day. 

The sun had set, and the short summer 
twilight was deepening over the earth, when 
a carriage stopped before a house in Legard 
Street, almost in front of which two gentle- 
men had met, seemingly by accident, a few 
minutes before, and now stood talking to- 
gether in a low tone. They moved a little 
aside, without suspending their conversation, 
and, as it chanced, placed themselves very 
near the curb-stone. The driver having. de- 
scended and opened the carriage-door, ex- 
tended his arm for the occupants to alight, 
and then one of the gentlemen, whose face 
was turned that way, for the first time 
glanced up. He saw a lady of middle age 
descend, and, standing upon the curb-stone, 
turn anxiously and offer her hand to an- 
other lady who was following her. 

“Thank you, but I can do very well 
with John’s arm,” said a sweet, clear voice, 
the first tone of which made Nowell’s heart 
give a bound that almost suffocated him. 
Before she spoke, before she had half 
emerged from the carriage-door, he recog- 
nized her ! And if a shadow of doubt had 
still existed in his mind as to her iden- 
tity, it would have vanished when, on reach- 
ing the pavement, she threw back her veil, 
and, the door of the house having been 
opened that moment by a servant from 
within, a broad glare of light fell full upon 
the face of Mabel Lee I 

Nowell’s arm was held in a vice-like 
grasp by his companion, and he was walk- 
ing rapidly down the street, when the mo- 
mentary rush of almost overpowering emo- 
tion ebbed sufficiently for him to be conscious 
of what he was doing. They were near the 
corner of a street, and at the corner a man 
in plain clothes stood, who, slightly touching 
his hat, said, in a quiet tone : 

“ Ready, yer honor ? ” 

“ Ready,” responded Mr. Lyndsay. He 


140 


MABEL LEE. 


turned himself and Nowell, and they retraced 
at more leisurely pace the two squares which 
they had just traversed so quickly. 

“You are confident of her identity?” 
said Mr. Lyndsay, as they approached the 
house once more, speaking for the first time 
since they had seen Mabel’s face. “ It would 
not do to make a mistake, you know.” 

“There can be no mistake,” answered 
Nowell, with a composure which reassured 
Mr. Lyndsay as to his capacity of self-control 
in the coming interview. “ It is my cousin, 
Mabel Lee.” 

“Here we are. For God’s sake, keep 
cool now, Francis, whatever occurs ! ” 

“ Trust me, I will.” 

They mounted the steps, and Nowell 
rang the bell. 

Some little time elapsed, and the sum- 
mons remained unheeded. Nowell rang 
again, this time with more energy than be- 
fore. Still there was no indication of life 
wTthin the house — no sign that any atten- 
tion would be accorded to their request for 
admittance. They heard the far-olf tinkle 
of the bell, and knew that it must have been 
audible from cellar to attic of the house; 
but no other sound broke the stillness. Now- 
ell had extended his hand to ring for the 
third time, when the echo of rapid footsteps 
was heard descending the stairs, and coming 
toward the door. A bar was removed, and 
the door cautiously opened, rendering ap- 
parent the fact that there was no light in the 
hall ; and a servant-girl demanded, in rath- 
er a scared tone of voice, what they want- 
ed. On hearing that they wished to see 
her master, she said he was sick — not well 
enough to receive any one; she knew he 
could not see them. 

“ Tell him, my good girl, that two gen. 
tlemen wish to see him on very important 
business — business which cannot be put 
olf,” said Mr. Lyndsay. 

The girl hesitated, and wanted to argue 
the point ; but Mr. Lyndsay’s “We must see 
him,” finally silenced her. She shut and 
locked the door, and they heard her run 
etumblingly up-stairs. She soon returned 
with the message that her master was par- 
ticularly unwell that evening, and could not 
possibly be disturbed. She was about to 


shut the door after saying this ; but a strong 
shoulder forced it wide open, and a strong 
hand caught her arm, detaining lier from the 
precipitate flight which she would have made. 

“ Hist ! not a w'ord, Mary,” whispered a 
voice which seemed not strange to her. 
“We don’t mane to hurt you, my girl ; but 
no noise, if youplase, or I shall have to put 
me hand over yer mouth.” The speaker 
suited the action to the word. 

The girl struggled violently, but ineffect- 
ually, and, while she struggled, the door was 
shut quietly, and the next moment a stream 
of light was thrown along the hall and stair- 
case from a bull’s-eye lantern, and she saw a 
group of men, the number of whom her ter- 
rified vision magnified indefinitely, mount- 
ing the steps, some in plain clothes, but most 
of them wearing the police badge. They 
moved noiselessly up the stairs, guided by 
the narrow path of light which their leader 
flashed ahead of him, until they reached 
the floor to which they were ascending. 
There the man who went in front paused for 
an instant and shut his lantern, ere he had 
advanced to a line of light that gleamed just 
before them, under a closed door. Opening 
this door, he entered, followed by Mr. Lynd'* 
say, Nowell, and several policemen. 

The apartment, thus unceremoniously in- 
vaded, contained but two occupants — a ca- 
daverous-looking man in dressing-gown and 
slippers, and the elder of the two ladies 
who had returned from driving a few min- 
utes before. She was engaged in pouring 
out tea at a small table near which the man 
was sitting, or rather reclining, in an arm- 
chair. Both man and woman seemed star- 
tled, even terrified, at sight of the party be- 
fore them. The sallow face of the former 
became almost white, and his eyes had a 
glistening, staring look, very unpleasant to 
behold ; while the latter dropped her hands 
to her lap, and sat, pale, trembling, and si- 
lent, with an expression of hopeless misery 
in her face. 

“ Mr. Garland, I believe,” said the officer 
of the party, advancing to the side of the 
man, who, at the sound of his name, made a 
not altogether unsuccessful effort to recover 
himself, and replied, with an assumption of 
dignity : 


THE DOUBLE SEAL OF BLOOD. 


141 


That is my name. What is the mean- 
ing of this intrusion, may I ask ? ” 

“I have a search-warrant,” answered 
the officer; “also a warrant for your arrest 
as an accomplice in the crime of abduction. 
This gentleman” — he pointed to Nowell — 
“has testified to his belief that the young 
lady who resides in this house, in character 
of your niece, is his cousin, Mabel Lee by 
name, who was forcibly abducted from her 
home on the afternoon of the 22d day of 
June last. You will produce the young lady 
at once, that his accusation may be either 
substantiated or dismissed.” 

The man’s face twitched and worked 
convulsively, as he listened to this speech ; 
and he seemed absolutely incapable of reply. 
He opened and shut his mouth once or twice 
in the effort to articulate, but no sound is- 
sued from the quivering lips. The officer 
waited patiently until he saw that' there was 
no probability of obtaining an answer from 
him ; and then, turning to the woman, was 
about to address her, when his attention, 
and that of all present, was attracted to the 
door, which had been shut after the entrance 
of the party, but which was now opened by 
the young lady, the object of their search. 
As if responding to the demand made a mo- 
ment before for her appearance, she advanced 
into the room, apparently without at first 
perceiving the goodly company gathered 
there, for, when she had proceeded but a few 
'steps within the threshold, she stopped sud- 
denly, and regarded the group of men with 
an astonished and frightened look. As she 
paused, Mrs. Garland started up, and, hur- 
rying to her, said, in a soothing tone : 

“ Don’t be alarmed, my dear. These 
gentlemen will not hurt you. Come with 
me and sit down.” * 

The girl caught the hand held out to 
her, and the two were moving toward a 
sofa that stood in a recess behind the tea- 
table, when Nowell, who had been gazing 
steadily at her whom he believed to be his 
cousin, waiting for the moment when she 
would see and recognize him, planted him- 
self before them, barring their way. 

“ Mabel,” he said, “Mabel Lee ! ” and he 
put his hand on her shoulder, looking in- 
tently, almost sternly, in her face. 


With a slight cry of surprise and alarm, 
she shrunk from his touch, as from that of a 
stranger, lifted her eyes to his for an in- 
stant without a sign of recognition, and 
then drew closer to her companion, on whom 
she turned a pitiably imploring glance, which 
seemed to ask what the meaning of all this 
was. 

Nowell stood confounded. Mr. Lynd- 
say thought, “ Humph ! he has been mis- 
taken as to her identity. A fine business 
we’ve made of it!” — and the policemen 
were of the same opinion. The silence was 
broken by a sound something between a 
chuckle and a cough from the sick man who 
sat by the table. 

“ I hope the gentleman is satisfied ! ” he 
cried, in a tone of undisguised triumph. 
“I hope he is satisfied! His cousin seems 
very glad to see him ! ” 

“Silence!” exclaimed Nowell, turning 
with a look under which the man literally 
cowered. “ Sir,” he continued, addressing 
the officer, “there is some trickery here. 
This lady is my cousin, Mabel Lee — ” 

He stopped short — a quick shiver ran 
over his form — his face became perfectly 
colorless, and an expression of horror set- 
tled upon it. Sudden as a flash, while he 
was speaking, and gazing at the averted face 
before him, the fearful truth burst on his 
apprehension. It was the face, the form, 
the personality of Mabel Lee which he 
looked upon ; but the mind — it was not 
there ! 

Nowell had entered this house prepared 
for any revelation which might await him ; 
and, though he staggered for a moment un- 
der a blow so unexpected and so awful as 
the discovery of his cousin’s condition was 
to him, he rallied almost instantly. The 
very intensity of the shock dulled sensibil- 
ity for the time. He moved a little, so as 
to stand full before the woman to whom 
Mabel was clinging, 

“ How long has she been insane ? ” he 
asked, in the tone of an ordinary question. 

“From the very first,” she answered, 
without any attempt to maintain a further 
dissimulation. 

“You mean from the day of her ab- 
duction ? ” 


142 


MABEL LEE. 


“Yes.” 

“Let her sit down.” 

The woman led Mabel to the sofa, and 
Nowell, following, stood before her, and 
again tried to make her recognize him. 

“ Mabel,” he said, very gently, “ do yon 
not know me? — me, your cousin Francis? ” 

She looked up at him with a painful 
expression of bewilderment. 

“ Will you not come with me to Con- 
stance ? ” 

Something like a troubled ray of rec- 
ollection shone in her eye for an instant, 
but faded then. She looked with the same 
imploring glance as before to Mrs. Garland, 
who had sat down on the sofa beside her. 

Nowell drew a deep breath that sounded 
almost like a hiss. “ Mabel,” he said, witli 
an heroic effort of self-compulsion — “Mabel, 
have you forgotten Philip Conway? ” 

At that name, sudden life and light 
flashed into the blankly-bewildered face. 

“Philip!” she cried, springing to her 
feet, and extending both hands toward 
Nowell — '■^my Philip! ” and she flung her- 
self into his arms with sobs of joy. “ O Pliil- 
ip, have you come at last? O Philip, I 
never meant to leave you — did you think I 
meant to leave you? — are you angry with 
me for going ? I could not help it, Philip.” 

Still clinging to his bosom, she lifted 
her face, all smiles and tears, to his; but, 
when she saw the countenance bending 
over her, she shrieked, tore herself from 
his encircling arms, and, hastily placing 
herself on the other side of Mrs. Garland, 
crouched against her, as if for protection. 

“ It is not Philip,” she whispered, in 
an accent of heart-breaking disappointment. 
“ Philip ! Philip ! Oh, will he never come ? ” 

As that cry of anguish pierced his ear, 
Nowell forgot his own anguish, and the 
bitter jealousy that was gnawing at his 
heart ; he, cold man, usually so reticent of 
the least expression of commonest emotion, 
forgot the many and strange eyes that were 
regarding the scene with pitying interest; 
and, kneeling before the shrinking form of 
the sobbing girl, he gently laid his hands on 
one of the arms which clasped those of Mrs. 
Garland. 

“Mabel,” he said, in a tone sorrowful 


as her own had been, “Mabel, il you will 
come with me, I will take you to Philip 
Conway.” 

The face which was pressed oehind the 
shoulder of her protectress lifted itself 
eagerly, and she looked at him for a mo- 
ment. 

“ Come with me, and I will take you tc- 
Philip Conway,” he repeated. 

She shook her head. '‘'‘He promised to 
take me to Philip,” she said, with a shiver, 
“and he brought, me here where Philip 
never comes.” 

Nowell’s quick eye caught sight of a lit- 
tle rosary and crucifix that hung from her 
girdle. He lifted it in his hand, and held 
it up to view, as he asked : 

“ He did not promise on this, did he ? ” 

“ No,” she said. 

“ See, then — ” he lifted the beads, and, 
bending 'his head, touched his lips to the 
silver crucifix — “ see ! I promise you on this, 
that I will take you to Philip Conway.” 

Her face grew radiant. “I will go with 
you!” she cried, joyfully; and, as Nowell 
rose to his feet, she, too, started up eagerly, 
and then suddenly turned to Mrs. Garland, 
who remained seated, saying, “You must 
come too ” — repeating, as she looked again 
to Nowell, “she must come too. She'fls 
very kind to me,” she added, with touching 
simplicity. 

Mrs. Garland burst into passionate weep- 
ing. 

“ I have tried to be kind to her, God 
knows,” she sobbed. Oh, sir,” she went on, 
looking up at Nowell, with streaming eyes, 
“it was sorely against my will that I have 
had any thing to do with this wickedness. 
It was not my fault — and it was not so much 
my husband’s as — ” 

“ Hush ! ” screamed her husband, in a 
tone of shrill rage and alarm. “ Hush, you 
miserable fool ! You have betrayed your- 
self and me — take care that you don’t go 
any farther. Don’t answer a word — what- 
ever they ask you.” 

“If it is Mr. Ainslie’s safety you are 
thinking about,” said the oflBcer, with a sig- 
nificant smile, “ your concern is unnecessary. 
We are perfectly aware that he was the 
principal in the business ; it was by wak^h- 


THE DOUBLE SEAL OF BLOOD. 


143 


ing his movements that the whereabouts of 
the young lady was discovered. He is in 
custody by this time, and I will trouble you 
to come with us now. Here is the warrant 
for your arrest.” He unfolded a paper, in 
a business-like manner, and laid it on the 
tab.e beside Mr. Garland, who, at the words 
“ he is in custody by this time,” had thrown 
himself against the back of his chair with a 
gesture of despair, and shut his eyes ; not 
noticing the remainder of the sentence. The 
officer, after waiting a moment, touched his 
shoulder, and said again, “I must trouble 
you to come with me, sir.” 

The miserable man opened his eyes, and 
rose from his seat without a word, sullen 
and defiant in manner, though he trembled 
from head to foot. His wife, who, at Now- 
ell’s request, was just leading Mabel from 
a scene which seemed to trouble and be- 
wilder her, left her charge and started for- 
ward, as she heard the last words, and saw 
her husband stand up. 

“For the love of mercy — for the love of 
God, spare him, sir,” she cried, seizing the 
oflScer’s arm with both her hands. “ He is 
very ill — not able to go out. Leave a po- 
liceman here to guard him, and let him 
stay.” 

“1 am sorry for your sake, madam, that 
I cannot comply with your request,” he an- 
swered civilly ; “ but my duty is plain — ” 

“ But he is very ill — indeed, indeed, he 
is very ill I ” pleaded she, in an agony of 
entreaty. “He will make no attempt to 
escape. Leave him here at least till to- 
morrow.” 

“Hush!” said her husband, harshly. — 
“ I suppose you do not object to my putting 
on my coat and boots ? ” he said, looking at 
the officer with a sneer on his lip. 

“No ; put them on,” was the reply. 

“ Will you come up-stairs ? ” said Mrs. 
Garland, in a tearful voice, going to his side, 
and trying gently to make him sit down 
again, “ or shall I bring them to you here? ” 

“ Bring them here.” 

As she was leaving the room to do his 
bidding, she encountered Nowell in the 
passage just outside the door ; and, suddenly 
remembering Mabel, looked inquiringly tow- 
ard him. 


“ The servant has taken her to her 
chamber,” he said in reply to her look. 

“ Oh, sir, speak for my husband 1 ” she 
exclaimed, in broken accents. “If he is 
taken out and has to go through all this 
excitement, it will kill him. The doctors 
have always told him to avoid excitement — 
he is subject to haemorrhages — and — ” 

Her voice was choked in sobs. Nowell 
remembered Mabel’s artless testimony to 
this woman’s kindness; he thought that 
every thing about her betokened sincerity, 
and he believed that she had spoken the 
truth when she affirmed that she had* not 
willingly been concerned in the abduction. 

So he answered that he would try and 
induce the officer to allow her husband to 
remain in his own house, under guard, for 
this night ; and, while she went on up-stairs, 
he joined Mr. Lyndsay and the officer, who 
were talking together, and preferred his re- 
quest — explaining his reasons for making it. 

The policeman was not very easily af- 
fected by the woes of criminals’ wives. lie 
was accustomed to tears and protestations 
of innocence from such “ parties,” as he 
called them ; he rather wondered at Now- 
ell’s credulity about the woman; and as 
to the man’s ghastly looks, and reputed 
haemorrhages, he mentally pronounced that 
“ all gammon.” But, as Mr. Lyndsay sec- 
onded Nowell’s wishes, he condescended to 
concede the point that the man should not 
be removed that night. 

“I’ll just wait till Gorman comes, and 
leave him in charge,” he said. “ He ought 
to have been here before this. I told him 
to come and let me know, as soon as our 
other bird was caged. Ah! there he is 
now — ” he looked toward the open door at 
which a policeman appeared, and beckoned 
with his hand. “Why, where’s Gorman? ” 
he asked, as the man approached and sa- 
luted. “ I told him to come himself. You’ve 
secured the prisoner, I hope ? ” 

“He’s safe,” answered the new-comer, 
grimly, “but not just in the way we ex- 
pected. He resisted his arrest, drawed a 
pistol on Gorman, and it went off in the 
scuffle, and lodged a ball in his own lungs 
for his pains.” 

“Killed him I” 


144 


MABEL LEE. 


“No, he’s alive — but — ” 

“ What is that you say ? ” demanded a 
voice so close at the man’s elbow that the 
latter gave a violent start, as he turned to 
the speaker, who had approached unob- 
served by any of the group. “ What is that 
you say?” repeated Mr. Garland — for it 
was he — “ who are you talking about? ” 
“About your friend Mr. Ainslie,” re- 
plied the officer. “He was flourishing a 
pistol at my men who were sent to arrest 
him, and by its accidental discharge — you 
say, Davis — got shot himself? ” 

“Yes, sir, that was the way of it. We 
found him at his own house, at dinner with 
a party of gentlemen ; and he came out to 
us, and, when Gorman showed him the war- 
rant, he turned a little white, but took it 
cool, and asked all about it, and said with a 
sort of a laugh that he supposed he couldn’t 
refuse sich a pressin’ invitation, but he must 
go up-stairs and change his dress, and that 
when he came down he would ’pologize to 
his friends for leavin’ ’em to finish dinner 
without him. Gorman went up-stairs with 
him, and stood at the door while he pre- 
tended to be dressin’ ; but instead of that he 
was loadin’ a pistol and preparin’ to jump 
out of the winder and cut for it. Gorman 
thought his motions was a little sespicious, 
and, when he seed him put out the light that 
was in the room, Gorman he run in and 
grabbed the bird, jest as he was about to 
let himself down from the winder. He had 
a sheet tied to the iron hinge of the shetter, 
and there’s no doubt he mout have got away, 
if Gorman hadn’t a bin too quick for him. 
He fout desperately and gev Gorman sich a 
squeeze of the windpipe as a’most knocked 
him up. But the pistol it went ofi* in the 
tussle, and me, heei-in’ the report, run up 
and found him layin’ in a heap. Weedin’ like 
a beef, and quite onsensible ; and Gorman 
a’most as bad oflT as he was, and not able to 
speak a word by reason of havin’ bin 
choked lialf to death. He was a gamecock, 
he was, that Mr. Ainslie, and no mistake.” 

“ Gorman is not actually disabled, is he? ” 
“Well, no, sir. He sent me on to say 
Iie’d be here, shortly. Here he is now, I ex- 
pect. I hear somebody cornin’ up-stairs.” 
The next moment another policeman 


halted at the door ; and then, at a signal 
from his superior, advanced. 

“Well, Gorman. You are not hurt, I 
hope ? ” 

“Not much, sir. But the job turned 
•out different from what I could have wished, 
sir, and I did my duty faithfully; but Mr. 
Ainslie chose to make a fool of himself by 
resisting. He fought like a devil ; and the 
end of it was that he’s done for himself, as 
I suppose Davis told you.” 

“ Is he dead ? ” 

“Not yet. At least he was alive when 
I left ; 'but the doctors think he won’t live 
till morning.” 

Mr. Garland, who had stood with parted 
lips, and eyes distended by horror, turned 
as he heard the last words, as if with the 
intention of going back to his seat ; but, 
before he had proceeded three steps, he 
stopped, reeled, and fell heavily to the floor. 
They raised him quickly, and, perceiving 
that blood was gushing from his mouth, laid 
him down on his back upon the carpet, 
while one of the policeinen ran for salt to 
stop the haemorrhage, and another for a phy- 
sician — those who remained busying them- 
selves opening his clothes, and rendering all 
the assistance they could. But the friendly 
aid, medical skill, the frantic grief of the 
poor wife, who came shrieking, and threw 
herself on the floor beside the still form — all 
availed naught. The man was dead. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

THE WAGES OF SIN. 

Brief time had elapsed between the mo- 
ment when Nowell and Mr. Lyndsay, ac- 
companied by the police, had presented 
themselves so unexpectedly in the drawing- 
room of Mr. and Mrs. Garland, and that in 
which they had recrossed the threshold, 
leaving for the moment, as again its only oc- 
cupants, the man and his wife — the dead 
man and his wildly-sorrowing wife. The 
presence of death claims, from all but the 
thoroughly imbruted nature, a certain trib- 
ute of respect ; and the party descended 
the broad staircase to the now well-liglited 


THE WAGES OF SIN. 


145 


hall, with steps as noiseless, if not as 
stealthy, as those with which they had 
passed, not more than half an hour before, 
to the interview that terminated so tragi- 
cally. 

The work of the police was over. The 
facts of Mabel’s presence and identity had 
been established, and there was no danger 
of further conspiracy against her safety, the 
wretched accomplice of Ainslie being dead, 
and Ainslie himself reported dying. The 
functionaries of the law left the house, 
therefore, encountering at the door the per- 
sons who had been sent by the physician 
to render the necessary services to the dead, 
while Mr. Lyndsay and Nowell paused 
under the hall chandelier, to hold a consul- 
tation as to the best means of proceeding 
now, with regard to Mabel. So impatient 
was Nowell to remove her at once from 
this house, that the united influence of Mr. 
Lyndsay’s arguments, and the assurances of 
the maid (who had been summoned to as- 
sist at the discussion), that he might “ fright- 
en the young lady into spasms if he showed 
himself to her again that night, much less 
asked her to go away with him,” scarcely 
availed to prevent his making the attempt to 
persuade her to accompany him thence. In 
addition to the repugnance which he natu- 
rally felt to her remaining a moment longer 
under that roof, he feared what the eflPect 
upon her would be, if she became aware of 
the death of her pseudo-uncle; and he was 
apprehensive that it might not be possible 
to conceal the fact from her. The maid, 
who seemed to be an honest and intelligent 
girl, thought it would not be difficult to 
do so. The young lady was not in the 
habit of seeing Mr. Garland often, she said ; 
sometimes he did not leave his chamber for 
days at a time ; there was no danger of her 
finding it out herself, and, of course, nobody 
would tell her; no — she was not likely to 
be disturbed by the moving about which 
was then going on up-stairs; she slept a 
good deal, and very soundly, and had re- 
tired to bed at her maid’s recommendation, 
immediately on returning to her chamber 
when she left the drawing-room. 

“I see nothing for it hut to let her 
remain here to-night,” said Mr. Lyndsay. 

10 


“As she has gone to bed, rousing her again 
is not to be thought of. We will stay our- 
selves, Francis. — I dare say, my girl, you 
can show us a room on this floor, where we 
can remain without disturbing the house- 
hold in any way ? ” 

The maid courtesied, and opened the 
door near by. “Here is the dining-room, 
sir. I’m sure Mrs. Garland, poor lady, 
'would make you welcome to stay.” 

She took a box of matches from her 
pocket, went in, lighted the chandelier, and, 
pointing out two sofas to the gentlemen, 
who had followed her, offered to bring, 
pillows and coverings if they would please 
to sleep there. But Nowell would not 
listen to Mr. Lyndsay’s proposal of remain- 
ing. He would stay himself, he said — he 
had several letters to write, and he could 
occupy himself with them, and get them 
off Ids hands that night. Mr. Lyndsay, he 
insisted, must go home. 

“If you have letters to write, it may be 
as well for me to leave you,” said that 
gentleman. “I will return early dn the 
morning, and we can breakfast together. — 
By-the-way, Mike is here yet, is he not? 
he asked of the maid, who still waited. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ He had better stay, so that if you want 
any thing, Francis, he will be at hand.” 

“ I want something this moment,” re- 
plied Nowell, “some writing-materials. It 
is a lucky chance that he happens to be 
here — I can send him out for them. — Tell 
him to come to me, will you, my good 
girl ? ” 

The maid disappeared, and Mr. Lyndsay, 
again promising to return early the next 
day, shook hands and departed. 

The night was not very far advanced 
when Nowell sat down to write. His first 
letter was to Constance, and it was brief ; 
giving her no definite information — scarcely 
a definite hope of the success of his search. 
He wished to prepare her somewhat for hear- 
ing of that which he knew she, like himself, 
would regard as a worse calamity than 
death itself — Mabel’s insanity. “Do not,” 
he wrote, “be too sanguine of a happy re- 
sult to my search when I tell you that I 
have undoubtedly traced Mabel to this 


146 


MABEL LEE. 


place ; and do not be disappointed because 
• I cannot now enter into particulars. Be 
satisfied for the present with knowing that 
I have made three certain discoveries : First, 
that Mabel is here in Charleston ; secondly, 
that she was forcibly abducted ; thirdly, 
that I was mistaken in having suspected 
Philip Conway of being concerned, either 
directly or indirectly, in the nefarious busi- 
ness. Tell him this — and say that I am 
heartily sorry for having judged him so un- 
justly; and that I make the only reparation 
in my power, by asking him to join me here 
immediately. His presence will be of mate- 
rial assistance in the further prosecution of 
this aflFair ; for I will not conceal from you, 
Constance, that there are still serious diffi- 
culties to be overcome. Accompany him 
yourself ; but do not permit either my aunt 
or Mr. Seyton to come. Make what expla- 
nation and excuses you think best ; but re- 
member, they must not come. And I en- 
treat that Mr. Conway and yourself will not 
be a moment in setting out. I will write 
by the next mail to Father Lawrence. 

“Your cousin, 

“Fkancis Howell.” 

He did not wait until the next mail, but 
wrote at once to the priest, detailing at 
length what had occurred, as cautiously as 
possible, the deplorable truth, and above 
all, to expedite the departure for Charles- 
ton of his cousin and Conway. 

After sealing and addressing the letters, 
he went noiselessly to the head of the stair- 
case, as he had done many times before, 
since his watch commenced, to hear if all 
was quiet on the floor upon which Mabel’s 
chamber was situated. As he paused, lis- 
tening, the drawing-room door opened, and 
Mrs. Garland stood before him, and spoke 
in a subdued but calm voice. 

“I was in her chamber a few minutes 
ago, and she is sleeping as quietly as an in- 
fant. Will you come in here, sir? I wish 
to speak to you. Or, no — I will go down 
to the dining-room, if you don’t object.” 

“ Certainly not, madam,” answered 
Nowell, though he was not a little surprised. 
He descended the stairs, and she followed. 

Nowell placed a chair for her near the 


table at which he had been writing, and sat 
down himself opposite. He almost started 
when he looked at her face, now that the 
brilliant light of the chandelier shone full 
upon it, so worn and so ghastly did it ap- 
pear. But she seemed perfectly composed 
in manner, and her eyes, though sunken 
and feverish-looking, were tearless. 

“You are surprised to see me, sir,” she 
said, as soon as she had sunk wearily into 
the large chair that almost engulfed her thin 
figure. “ You wonder that I can wish to 
talk to a stranger at such a time as this. I 
thought you would be , anxious to hear all 
the particulars of — about your cousin ; and 
— and — ” 

Her lips quivered, and her face took an 
expression of such utter wretchedness, that 
Nowell withdrew his eyes from the sight 
with a sense of actual pain, wishing most 
devoutly that she had left him to his solita- 
ry watch, and adopted some other means of 
giving him the information which unques- 
tionably he was very anxious to obtain. 
Perhaps she divined this thought, for she 
controlled herself, and spoke in a firmer 
voice. 

“ I have been trying for the last hour to 
write what I wished you to know ; but 1 
could not write. Have a little patience 
with me. I will be as short as possible. It 
is because I must do what poor justice I can 
to my husband that I make this explanation, 
sir. He was not as guilty as he seemed. 
When that man — oh, may God’s curse light 
upon him ! ’ she exclaimed, with frightful 
vehemence. “ May — ” 

“ Stop, madam ! ” cried Nowell, hastily, 
with something like a shudder. He had 
been cursing Ainslie in his own heart, and 
as bitterly ; but such words sounded to him 
horrible on the lips of a woman. “You do 
not know that the man is dying, dead by 
this time, in all probability.” 

She stared at him incredulously. 

“It is true,” he said, and explained 
briefly the circumstances of the case. 

Mrs. Garland was silent for a moment. 
She leaned back and closed her eyes, and a 
world of bitter thought was reflected on her 
sorrow-sharpened face. When she spoke 
again, it was more gently. 


THE WAGES OF SIN. 


147 


“ You were shocked at hearing me curse 
this man, but ah 1 if you knew what cause 
I have to hate him, you would not wonder 
at it. He, and his father before him, were 
the curse and ruin of my husband’s life. 
Covington (Ainslie’s father) persuaded him 
to risk all his fortune in some speculation 
that turned out a failure. We were well off 
before that — almost rich — but my husband 
lost every thing, and had to go to clerking 
for a support. He did not like it, and the 
life did not agree with his health. We 
moved away from Charleston, and he tried 
one thing after another, without succeeding 
at any thing ; moving about from place to 
place, very poor, and constantly getting 
deeper and deeper in debt. Our children 
died one after another, and we ourselves 
were often on the verge of starvation. But 
still my husband was an honest man, and 
we were not altogether unhappy. It went 
very hard with me to remember that all our 
trouble was caused by the dishonesty of 
Covington ; for, though my husband never 
would hear of it, I always believed, like 
everybody else, tliat his speculation was a 
cheat, and he himself a villain. Last April 
we were in Richmond, Virginia, in very 
poor circumstances. My husband’s health, 
which had been bad for a long time, was 
getting worse every day ; he was very much 
depressed in mind ; was out of employment, 
and had not much hope of getting any work 
that he would be able to do. One day when 
he had been out hunting for a place, he 
came home looking in such high spirits' that 
I was astonished. He had his pocket-book 
in his hand, and he opened it and took out 
a paper which he held for me to look at. 
It was a check for five thousand dollars. 
When I asked him where in the world he got 
it, he told me that he had accidentally met 
young Covington — I mean Ainslie — on the 
street that morning, and, recognizing him, 
went up and spoke to him. Ainslie seemed 
very glad to see him, and invited him to 
dine with him at his hotel, and after dinner 
he questioned my husband, found out all his 
debts and difficulties, and made him accept 
this check, which he said he considered a 
debt— for that it w'as by his father’s mis- 
fortune, as he called it, that Mr. Garland 


had fallen into these difficulties. He came 
several times to see my husband, and per- 
suaded him to move to Charleston again — 
gave him a letter of introduction to his law- 
yer, told him to take a holiday and recruit 
his health for a while, and that when he 
himself came to Charleston he would find 
some place or some business for him. We 
came here and went into a boarding-house, 
and, my husband’s mind being at rest for the 
first time in many years, his health improved 
rapidly, until he was almost well. I think 
it was some time in the latter part of May 
that he received a letter from Ainslie, which 
was the beginning of all this sin and misery. 
The letter commenced hy saying that my 
husband could do him a very great favor — 
confer an obligation on him for which he 
would be everlastingly grateful; that he 
and a young lady in Ayre had fallen in love 
with one another, but that her family would 
not consent to the match because they 
wanted her to marry her cousin, which she 
was not willing to do. As her family 
seemed determined to force her to it, she 
had agreed to elope with Mr. Ainslie ; and 
v*^hat he asked of my husband was that he 
and myself would go and meet the young 
lady, and bring her to Charleston, where 
the marriage could take place. He wanted 
to do every thing in the most proper man- 
ner ; and he would like for the young lady 
to have a chaperone until they could be 
married. My husband saw no harm in 
the proposal. He said that iff the young 
lady’s family wanted to force her to marry 
against her will, why, that they deserved 
for her to run away ; that they were fools 
not to agree to her marrying Mr. Ainslie, 
who was very wealthy, and the cleverest 
fellow that ever breathed. He agreed at 
once to do all he could, and insisted on my 
consenting to my part — though I was op- 
posed to it from the first. I never believed 
in runaway matches, for I never knew one 
that did not turn out badly. Several letters 
were exchanged, and my husband, at Mr. 
Ainslie’s request, took this house and fur- 
nished it at his expense — and, at the time 
appointed, we went in a carriage to meet 
him and the young lady. They were to 
come down the river in a skiff ; and, sure 


148 


MABEL LEE. 


enough, at a place called Morford’s Landing, 
I think it was, we met them. The first I 
saw of them, as I sat in the carriage on the 
bank of the river, they were talking and 
laughing ; and this did not give me a very 
high opinion of the young lady, for I 
thought that it must be a very frivolous girl 
who could be laughing in that way at such 
a time. While I was watching them, the 
skilf stopped at the landing, and then 1 no- 
ticed that the young lady looked surprised. 
We were not near enough to hear any of 
the conversation that followed, but I under- 
stood very well afterward what was the 
meaning of the strange motions she made. 
vJiice it looked as if she was trying to throw 
herself into the river. I began to be uneasy, 
and directed my husband’s attention to the 
singular manner in which she was acting ; 
but he only laughed, and said it was all af- 
fectation — that she was only shilly-shallying 
to tease Mr. Ainslie. While he had been 
speaking, I looked away from the skiff, and 
when I turned to it again, I saw Mr. Ains- 
lie step on shore with the young lady in his 
arms. He brought her to the carriage, and 
then I perceived that she had fainted. I 
was dreadfully alarmed, but Mr. Ainslie 
made light of it. He gave me a smelling- 
bottle, and told the driver to bring some 
water from the river, with which he bathed 
her face. ‘It is nothing serious,’ he said. 

‘ She is only a little nervous. Her pulse is 
all right. Just get into the carriage. Gar- 
land, and drive off. I must hurry back, for 
I don’t want to be missed.’ All in a hurry, 
and, before I had time to think, we were 
driving off as fast as the horses could go. 
I was so much engaged in trying to recover 
the young lady, that I did not have my 
senses fairly about me. But if I had them, 
I am afraid it would have done no good. I 
had no power to stop the carriage, or to do 
any thing but reproach my husband.” Her 
voice faltered here. “ I arn afraid I spoke 
very angrily ; but still he affected to think 
that there was nothing wrong. But, when 
the young lady continued insensible for 
more than an hour, he grew very much 
alarmed too. He called to the driver to 
stop ; but the driver did not liear, or pre- 
tended that he did not. At last the poor 


girl moved, and drew a deep breath. was 
rejoiced, and spoke to her, asking her how 
she was. But she did not answer. She lay 
in my arms and moaned ; and once I heard 
her say ‘ Philip ’ in such a strange tone, 
that it made a cold chill run over me. I 
would have taken her back to her home; 
but my husband would not hear of this. 
Indeed, if he had been willing, we did not 
know what direction Ayre was. We must 
have driven ten miles when the carriage 
stopped again by the river, and we heard 
the sound of voices. One of them asked the 
driver if all was right, and he answerd yes. 

‘ Drive in, then,’ said the first voice, and the 
next moment the carriage was driven into a 
fiat-boat, and we were going down the river. 
We had started from the place where the 
young lady was put into the carriage, just 
before dusk; and it was some hours into 
the night when we got on the boat. It was 
the most miserable night I had ever spent. 
I was sure that there had been some de- 
ception on the part of Mr. Ainslie; and I 
begged and implored my husband to stop 
the boat, and return to Ayre with the poor 
girl who lay moaning in my arms. He has 
since told me that he would have done this, 
if it had been possible — but that neither 
the driver nor the boatmen would have 
obeyed him, if he had ordered them to re- 
turn. They had received their directions 
from Ainslie, and would not have listened 
to—” 

“One moment, madam, if you please,” 
said Nowell. “ Were the boatmen white or 
black ? ” 

“ They were white men. The driver 
was black — one of Ainslie’s own servants.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“All night” — resumed Mrs. Garland, 
who spoke as if she were very much ex- 
hausted — “ we were going down the river 
with the current. It was light enough for 
me to see this, though only the stars were 
out. At daylight, we left the boat, and 
drove to the bouse about a mile from the 
river, where breakfast was ready for us. 
When we stopped, and poor Mabel was 
lifted out of the carriage, she opened her 
eyes for the first time ; and then I saw that 
she was deranged. I nearly went deranged 


THE WAGES OF SIN. 


149 


myself, I was so terribly shocked. So was 
my husband ; but he made up his mind, by 
this time, that the thing had gone too far 
for us to turn back. I reproached him al- 
most frantically ; and he at last lx)st his 
temper, and answered me very harshly.” 
She burst into tears. “ In all our troubles,” 
she continued, “we never had any serious 
disagreement. Never had he spoken to me 
as — as you heard him speak ‘to-night. But 
he seemed altogether changed, from that 
night. He grew irritable and gloomy ; al- 
ways ready to find fault with any thing I 
did. Sometimes he would be like himself 
for a little while ; and he would then admit 
that he was as miserable as a man could be. 
He suffered the most intense remorse. And 
yet, strange to say, he did not seem to feel any 
resentment against Ainslie. I never could 
understand how it was that Ainslie acquired 
such an influence over him. It was not al- 
together gratitude for the assistance he had 
given — by which my husband was enabled 
to pay his debts, and feel, as he expressed 
it, a free man once more. He seemed posi- 
tively to love this base, wicked creature. I 
believe the wretch himself was shocked 
when he came to Charleston, and found 
that his villanous plan of compelling Mabel 
to marry him could not be carried out. 
He never saw her but once in this house — 
the day he came first. Though he was told 
that she was insane, he insisted on seeing 
her ; and I brought her down. She shrieked 
and fainted at sight of him ; and I declared 
then solemnly to himself and my husband, 
that, if he came into her presence again, I 
would make a public confession of the 
whole affair, whatever the consequence 
might be. He did not attempt to test my 
resolution; he did not even seem to re- 
sent it ; but I know, from various things 
which my husband told me, that he in- 
dulged the hope of her ultimate recovery, 
and expected to make her his wife. His 
plan was, that we should remain in Charles- 
ton until he finished his business arrange- 
ments, and then go to Europe with her, 
where he could consult the best physicians.” 

“Has any physician seen her?” Nowell 
asked. 

“No. I am very anxious to call in 


physicians, but my husband was so afraid 
of risking a discovery, that he would not 
have one for himself — though he has needed 
one, 7 she added, sorrowfully. “ 1 have told 
you all this, sir, in the hope that it will 
make you think more charitably of my poor 
husband. Excepting in this one instance, 
he never in his whole life wronged man or 
woman. He was a good man and an honest 
man until this wretch that you think I 
ought not to curse led him astray ; and the 
remorse which he buffered has, I believe, 
been the cause of his death. Oh, sir, if you 
would think as well as you can of him ! ” — 
she clasped her liands passionately — “if 
you could forgive him ! ” 

“I will try to do so,” said Nowell, 
gravely, “for your sake^ madam. I thank 
you for the kindness you have shown my 
unfortunate cousin. Had she been with 
one who dealt less gently with her, she 
would have suffered even more than she 
has. And now you will be adding to this 
kindness, if you tell me what her precise 
condition of mind is. I have written foi 
her sister, and — and the ‘Philip ’ for whom 
she mistook me ; but they cannot be here 
for several days — ” 

“ Pray let her remain with me until her 
sister arrives!” Mrs. Garland exclaimed, 
earnestly. “ She is very much attached to 
me, and very docile to all my wishes. I — ” 
“ But,” said Nowell, “ at such a time as 
this—” 

“My husband is dead,” she replied, in a 
hopeless tone. “ If I can do the least thing 
in repairing the sin into which he was led, 
oh, give me the consolation of doing it ! ” 

“ But may not the discovery of — of what 
has occurred — be injurious to her ? ” he 
asked, hesitatingly. 

“ She shall not know it. Mary, the maid 
you saw, is a good, trustworthy girl. When 
I cannot be with her myself, Mary shall 
stay in her room.” 

“Thank you — thank you heartily — ” 

She did not wait for him to go on with 
what he was about to say, but rose feebly, 
and, bowing her head, walked slowly from 
the room; and, though she had stopped his 
speech prematurely, he could not resolve 
to stay her departure. In the text which 


150 


MABEL LEE. 


she had furnished, he found ample matter 
for thought during the rest of the night. 

Shortly after dawn, Mike appeared with 
the information that “if his honor would 
stip up-stairs, he would find some wather 
and towels that Mary had put for his hon- 
or’s use in the spare chamber, and cook 
was — ” Mow ell stopped him, when he had 
proceeded so far, and declined the hospi- 
table attentions proffered, with an excuse 
that he was going out at once. 

He gave Mr. Lyndsay, w^hile he break- 
fasted, a summary of Mrs. Garland’s story ; 
and they were about to rise from the table, 
when a servant announced that a messen- 
ger wished to speak immediately with Mr. 
Nowell. 

“Show him in,” said Mr. Lyndsay, while 
Nowell’s heart gave one bound, and then 
stopped still — for he thouglit of Mabel. But 
before he had time to start from his seat, 
a respectable-looking servant entered — a 
negro man — who, notwithstanding his well- 
bred efforts to speak with conventional 
composure, wms evidently out of breath. 

“ I bring a message from my master, Mr. 
Ainslie, to Mr. Nowell,” he said, looking 
from one to the other of the gentlemen. 

“ What, is that scoundrel not dead yet ? ” 
cried Nowell, with all his natural brusque- 
ness. “ What can he want to say to me? ” 

He regretted having spoken so, as he 
saw the man’s eyes fill with tears that were 
dried the next instant by a fiash of indig- 
nant anger. Scoundrel, Ainslie undoubted- 
ly wms — but certainly he had the faculty of 
strongly attaching to him the affection of 
those about him. 

Without noticing Nowell’s remarks, the 
man continued, coldly : “ My master told 
me to say to Mr. Nowell that he is dying, 
and wishes very much to see Mr. Nowell 
immediately.” 

The two gentlemen exchanged glances. 

“ Mr. Ainslie’s carriage is at the door to 
take Mr. Nowell as quick as possible,” said 
the servant ; and there was the very slight- 
est intonation of entreaty in his voice. But 
Nowell’s face had become hard and cold. 
“ He told me to be sure and bring you, sir. 
He w’ants to see you very much,” said the 
man, addressing Nowell directly for the first 


I time, and openly brushing away the tears 
that again welled up into his eyes. The 
words were simple ; but the tone in which 
they were spoken made them persuasive. 

“I will go,” said the young man — but 
very coldly. “ What is the number of the 
house? ” 

“ The carriage is waiting — ” 

“ I will walk.” 

“No, no, Francis!” interposed Mr. 
Lyndsay. “ Take the carriage by all means ; 
and go at once. He may have something 
of importance to say to you. Don’t lose 
time! ” 

“ At a gallop ! ” was the brief order 
given to the driver by the servant who had 
summoned Nowell, as he sprang up behind 
the carriage. And his order was obeyed 
liberally. Very few minutes passed before 
the equipage dashed up to the door of 
Ainslie’s house in Rutledge Street. The 
servant jerked open the door, tore down the 
steps, and rapidly preceded Nowell into a 
large and lofty hall, up a broad stone stair- 
case, along a wide sky-lighted passage-way, 
through an open door, into a handsome and 
airy apartment that had, at first glance, 
nothing of the appearance of a death-cham- 
ber. The windows were all wide open ; 
even the cobweb lace curtains — their only 
drapery — were drawn entirely aside to let 
the fresh air of the morning enter freely ; 
and the sunshine poured in golden streams 
upon the India matting that covered the 
floor. Near one side of the bed was placed 
a small table, covered with scattered writ- 
ing-materials and a lighted taper, and at it 
a dried-up looking man sat folding and seal- 
ing a thick paper which needed no great 
perspicacity to divine to be the dying man’s 
last will and testament. T wo gentlemen, phy- 
sicians evidently, stood at the window most 
distant from the bed, talking in low tones. 

Nowell paused one moment upon the 
threshold, and then, his step attuning itself 
involuntarily to the stillness around, he ad- 
vanced to the foot of the bed, and stood 
looking down upon tl e man whose hand — ■ 
the traitor-hand that had dealt him so bit- 
ter a wrong ! — he had grasped not a week 
ago, in friendly greeting. 

There was nothing of the fearfulness of 


THE WAGES OF SLV. 


151 


death in Ainslie’s aspect ; none of the pain- 
ful, often revolting ghastliness which dis- 
ease seldom fails to impress upon the poor 
clay of humanity. Ilis face was very pale ; 
and the brilliant eyes, that had made its soli- 
tary attraction, were closed ; but the features 
were not sunken, and there was no disorder 
of garb, or disarrangement of the bed. He 
still wore the dress in which he sat down 
to dine the evening before, the removal of 
which had not been considered unavoidable, 
as the physicians had not believed it pos- 
sible that he could live an hour when they 
saw him first. And when he had tempora- 
rily recovered his sense, under the torture 
of being raised from the fioor, while a band- 
age was passed around his waist, he had 
forbidden that his dress should be touched. 
They had laid him on the bed, with a few 
folds of linen drapery thrown over the mid- 
dle part of his figure ; and there he remained 
unmoving — sunk in a heavy stupor during 
the night, but rousing to full consciousness 
with the first rays of the morning sun. 
Very calmly he addressed himself to the 
task of setting his house in order. His law- 
yer was summoned, his will made, and then 
he expressed a wish to see Howell. 

A strange wish Howell thought it, as 
he gazed at the impassive face for min- 
utes before there was any change in it. 
But suddenly the eyes unclosed themselves 
— and his gaze was returned. And it was 
singular that the expression in the eyes of 
the two men, as their glances met, was iden- 
tical ; bold, speculative, solemn, it spoke the 
thought which was in the mind of each — 
“ Stricken by God ! ” 

Stricken by God. The bitter sense of 
wrong — the passionate desire for vengeance 
— which had been burning so fiercely in 
Howell’s heart, ever since he had admitted 
the belief of Ainslie’s guilt, seemed to 
shrivel and turn to ashes. He had thirsted 
for this man’s blood : he had only refrained 
from spilling it, because he preferred the 
refinement of revenge which the disgrace of 
the legal penalty for his crime would in- 
flict upon Ainslie. 

And now ! — 

It was in a tone more quiet than cold 
that he said, “You wished to see me ? ” 


“Yes; I wished to see you.” 

The voice did not seem changed — a lit- 
tle weak, perhaps — and there was a slight 
catching of the breath ; but its tones were 
natural. He turned his eyes from Howell’s 
face, to the servant who was now standing 
close at the side of the bed opposite the 
table, and made a motion with his right 
hand, which was answered by the servant’s 
bringing a goblet of ice-water from a mar- 
ble stand near by. Tenderly raising his 
master’s head, the man held the water to 
his lips, and he drank. It refreshed him. 
His glance returned to Howell, and he 
spoke again. 

“Francis Howell, I sent for you to ask 
if you will grant a favor to a dying man ? ” 

“ Say on.” 

“ Garland was my blind agent at first 
— imposed upon by a deception on my part. 
After he discovered the nature of the act in 
which he was participating, his weakness 
of character, and partly his attachment to 
me, bound him to ray service. But in will, 
he is innocent. What I ask of you is, that 
you will not prosecute him — or permit him 
to be prosecuted.” 

Howell did not reply. He was gazing 
intently into the eyes that met his own 
steadily — and marvelling at the incompre- 
hensible character of the man who could 
remorselessly lead another into crime, and 
yet, at the hour of his own extremity, was 
capable of the generous desire to save him. 
He could not understand so contradictory a 
nature. 

Ainslie misinterpreted his silence : 

“ You will not promise ? ” he said. 
“You have put aside the natural im- 
pulse for vengeance so far as to come at my 
call, and to hold your hand from anticipat- 
ing death’s stroke upon me — and yet — 
But perhaps you came to gloat over the 
spectacle of my miserable end ? ” 

“Ho — I did not come for that.” 

“ For what, then ? ” 

“ Because you requested my pres- 
ence.” 

“Francis Howell, you call yourself a 
Christian man ! ” 

“ Yes.” 

“I have never been a Christian. I 


152 


MABEL LEE. 


have acknowledged no God save my own 
will. But now, in this moment when I 
stand upon the threshold, of eternity, 1 be- 
lieve that there is a God — the God whom 
you profess to worship ! ” He was silent 
for a minute — the catching in his voice 
having become more frequent and audible. 
“ Do' not think I make this declaration to 
buy oft' from the devil. I am sufficient- 
ly acquainted with the teachings of your 
priests to know that hypocrisy is not con- 
trition. I speak sincerely : I believe that 
there is a God ! — and I adjure you, in the 
name, and by the precepts of that God, for- 
give this man ! ” 

“ He shall not be prosecuted.” 

Almost involuntarily, Nowell spoke 
thus. The dying man’s solemn appeal had 
affected and softened him. He would not, 
he thought, add one more pang to the bit- 
terness of death : he would be mercifully 
silent respecting Garland. 

Ainslie did not speak in reply — but 
those marvellously beautiful eyes grew 
bright and soft with a gleam of gratitude 
and pleasure ; and then he closed them 
wearily, as if exhausted. But he said, 
faintly : 

“ Do — not go — yet.” 

In a little time he opened his eyes again^ 
and looked uneasily, to see if Nowell was 
still there. Observing this, the servant 
brought a chair, and Nowell sat down. 
But minutes passed in dead silence ; and he 
■was beginning to feel vague apprehensions 
about Mabel — doubts whether it was right 
for him to risk remaining any longer from 
her. He looked at Ainslie’s face. Per- 
haps he had again sunk into stupor. The 
breath, he perceived, was now very short. 
He had almost decided that to wait longer 
v/as superfluous — that he would at least 
consult the physicians, who were still in 
the room, whether it was probable that 
there would be a further rallying of the.obvi- 
ously failing spark of life. As he thought 
this, there was a slight quivering of the 
eyelids, and they lifted slowly, and the eyes 
at once sought his face. 

“ There was more — that I wished to say 
—but--” 

He paused, and rested for a moment 


— his voice had become very weak and un- 
certain. When he resumed, he spoke slowly, 
and with long pauses. 

“ I am not so remorseless a villain — as 
you perhaps think. Sinful my life has been 
— but never dishonorable, in a worldly sense 
— until this crime stained it — I loved her — 
and she was the first — who ever resisted 
my power — to attract. It was a gift with 
me — the power of fascinating whom I would 
— man or woman. Even yourself — while 
you hated Conway, you almost liked me. 
She alone defied me — and I swore to con- 
quer her. But I failed-^and, step by step — 
my passion led me on — until it finally cul- 
minated— in this outrage. Perhaps you 
wmuld — not believe me — if I told you that 
the remorse — which I have suffered — in see- 
ing her as she is — ” 

He closed his eyes. An expression of 
intolerable pain convulsed his face. “ And 
Conway — if he had not said — that he could 
not ask her to be his wife — I would not 
have wronged him so.” 

Again the lids sank heavily ; and there 
was a silence of some minutes. -Then, with 
a last effort, he looked up. 

“ Tell Conway — I — am — sorry.” 

The light went suddenly out of the 
brown eyes. The erring soul was gone. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES AFTER 
THEM. 

The sensation which Nowell’s letter 
caused in Ayre, wms something almost be- 
yond description, and quite beyond prece- 
dent. Never before had any thing occurred 
which so profoundly shocked and interested 
the whole community — as, indeed, it might 
have shocked a much larger community, 
seeing that the day of sensational horrors 
had not yet dawned upon that quiet region 
of country. Then, of all people, Mabel Lee 
was nearest the popular heart, and that she 
should have been singled out for such a fate 
seemed to Ayre almost too hard and ter- 
rible for belief. Not that they knew much 


THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES AFTER THEM. 


153 


about her as jet. Mr. Seyton and Con- 
stance had left immediately on the recep- 
tion of Nowell’s letter, and Mrs. Lee had 
followed as soon as she was able to travel ; 
the immediate friends of the family were re- 
ticent, and the newspapers seemed to be 
muzzled. Altogether, Ayre was in a state 
of uncomfortably indefinite and seething cu- 
riosity, which did not improve or obtain 
much gratification as the days went by. 

A good many of these days had gone by, 
when, having taken dinner, Mr. Blake sat 
down on his piazza one afternoon to smoke 
a pipe of rather gloomy contemplation. His 
thoughts were, of course, full of the topic 
which filled all thoughts just then, when 
the wdioops of two or three little negroes 
caused him to look up, and he saw a horse- 
man entering the gate. Something in the 
figure, and something in the horse, took him 
back at once to the May afternoon when he 
first met Philip Conway at the cross-roads 
— then in another moment he saw that it 
was Conway himself. With something of a 
start, lie took the pipe from his mouth, and 
walked toward the steps. By the time he 
reached them, the other had cantered for- 
ward, and they met face to face. Their greet- 
ings were usually formal ; but, for the first 
time, Blake held out his hand voluntarily. 

“How are you, Mr. Conway?” he said. 
“ I’m glad to see you back — but, good Heav- 
ens, sir, how badly you look ! ” 

“ Do I ? ” said Conway, shortly. “ There’s 
reason enough for it, since I have ridden al- 
most constantly — sparing neither myself nor 
my horse — since I received my uncle’s let- 
ter. Will you have him looked after, if you 
please ? lam very sorry to have been forced 
to treat him so.” 

Mr. Blake gave a low whistle as he 
looked at the horse, who stood by the steps, 
with his head down, his nostrils distended, 
his fianks still quivering from prolonged ex- 
ertion, and his whole air one of spent ex- 
haustion. 

“You must have ridden like the devil, 
sir,” he said. 

“ I felt like the devil,” was the curt re- 
ply. “ But I am sorry for Mazeppa. Poor 
fellow, he did his best. Will you have him 
put up, and furnish me another mount?” 


“Another one! You surely are not 
thinking of going on this afternoon, sir? ” 

“ I am going on in an hour. Send over 
to the House for Black Tom. He has a bet- 
ter bottom than any other horse on the plan- 
tation, I believe. In the mean time, I will 
be glad if you will give me something to 
eat.” 

“Certainly, sir. But won’t you have a 
drop or two of brandy first? ” 

“ I never travel without it, and I have 
a flask half full in my pocket now.” 

“ Take a sejit, then, sir, while I see about 
the horse. You look dreadfully fagged! ” 

He pushed a chair forward as he spoke, 
and, almost unconsciously, Conway sank in- 
to it. After Mazeppa had been led away, 
and. Mr. Blake himself was gone, he still sat 
quite motionless — the relaxation of intense 
fatigue in every limb, but something beyond 
fatigue, something which still had power to 
goad the sinking body into action, burn- 
ing in his eyes. Even during this brief rest, 
the desire to be moving toward his goal 
was apparent. Even while the body was 
sunk in this deep inertia, the will was urg- 
ing to action, and torturing with the thought 
of all that was yet to be done. More than 
once the slight, muscular hands clinched 
themselves as if they were already on a hu- 
man throat, and the black brows knitted 
into ominous frowns. Can you wonder? 
There are some wrongs that rend away, like 
flimsy veils, all the conventionalities vvith 
which it has pleased civilization to drape the 
life of man, leaving bare the naked human 
nature with all its savage instincts, which 
may be tolerably well repressed, but have 
never yet been uprooted. And it was a 
wrong of this sort that Conway was smart- 
ing under now — a wrong that might have 
made the very meekest turn in deadly 
wrath ; and a wrong that left no hope of 
redress, or thought of consolation, save only 
that bitter-sweet one of revenge. The rob- 
bery was deep enough, and black enough, 
in itself; but the betrayal which accom- 
panied it was, if any thing, even worse: and 
between the two, his heart was a caldron oJ 
such fierce passion as it would fare ill with 
the most of us if wo could even imagine. 
Fortunately, not many of us can — fortunate- 


154 


MABEL LEE. 


I7, such provocation is not often given, even 
on this wicked earth — but, if it were, we 
too might learn that sometimes, at least, the 
divine precept of forgiveness is spoken unto 
deaf ears. 

After a while, Mr. Blake came back, and 
found his guest in precisely the same posi- 
tion in which he had left him. 

“I have sent to the House for Black 
Tom, sir,-’ he said; “and he will be here 
shortly. I have been seeing them rub down 
the chestnut, and he seems a good deal bet- 
ter already. Dinner is ready : will you 
walk in ? ” 

During dinner, Conway made his first 
and only approach to the subject of which 
both their thoughts were full, by asking if 
any thing had been heard from Mr. Seyton. 
Blake shook his head. 

“ Nothing whatever, sir. Mrs. Lee went 
down the other day; but I suppose you 
have heard that ? ” 

“ No ; how should I ? I passed through 
Ayre, it is true; but I had no disposition to 
ask questions. Who went down with her ? ” 

“Father Lawrence, sir.” 

And that was literally all that was said. 
After dinner, Black Tom was brought out, 
and, declining the longer rest which his host 
urged, Conway took his departure. They 
had shaken hands, and he was in the saddle, 
when Blake stopped him and spoke ab- 
ruptly. 

“ One moment, Mr. Conway. I must do 
one thing, sir, before we part — I must beg 
your pardon for all the suspicion I have felt 
against you. I never liked you from the 
start, sir, and I was only too ready to believe 
any wrong of you. I see how mistaken I 
was. And I — I beg your pardon. It’s all I 
can do.” 

“ It is more than enough,” said Conway. 
“ Pshaw, man ! — do you think I minded 
your suspicion? — you spoke it out honestly, 
and I never resented it even for a moment. 
Indeed, I rather liked you the better for it, 
since it showed your love for her. If that 
is all you have to say, don’t keep me- here to 
say it now.” 

“ It isn’t all,” said Blake, catching at his 
bridle as he was turning away. I’m an old 
man, sir, and I’ve loved her longer than you 


have, so I have a right to say this : Take 
care what you do. Wrong was never yet 
mended by wrong, and — ” 

“Let me go!” said Conway, between 
his teeth. “ Do you think I can wait here 
to be preached to on a subject like this? 
No, wrong was never yet mended, but it 
can be avenged — and that is what it shall 
be 1 Stand out of the way.” 

Blake stood out of the way sorrowfully 
enough, and watched him ride out of sight. 
Then he drew his hand slowly across his 
eyes, and weut back into the house, mutter- 
ing a verse that came to' his memory with 
sudden force: 

“ ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith 
the Lord.’ ” 

When Conway reached Charleston, the 
first person whom he met was Mr. Seyton. 
Blake had given him the name of the hotel 
where the latter was to be found ; and, going 
there, he was shown at once to his room. 
It was vacant, but he had not long to wait 
before its occupant came in. 

“ Phil ! my dear boy,” he said, holding 
out his hand to the travel-stained figure 
who rose to meet him. “ I did not expect 
you for some days yet. How quickly you 
have come ! ” 

“ I have travelled almost without draw- 
ing rein,” Conway answered, “and I have 
not heard a w^ord of news. Sir — how is 
she?” 

Mr. Seyton shook his head sadly. 

“There is no change, my boy — they give 
us no hope of any. She is perfectly mild 
and gentle, but absolutely insane. She asks 
for you constantly, and sometimes takes even 
me for you. Will you go to her now ? ” 

Pale as Conway had been before, he 
grew yet paler at that request, and raised 
his hand with a quick gesture of silence and 
refusal. 

“ I could not bear it,” he said, huskily. 
“I dare not— yet. If I saw her first, 1 
should not be a man but a tiger, and I have 
something to do which must be done within 
conventional bounds, at least. Sir, don’t 
speak to me of her, but tell me at once 
where he ” — the dark brows met, and the 
dark eyes quivered and glowed — “ is to be 
found! ” 


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THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES AFTER THEM. 


155 


Mr. Seyton started, aud looked at him 
for a moment before he spoke. 

“Do you mean Ainslie?”he asked, at 
last. 

“ Whom else should I mean ? ” answered 
the other, fiercely. “ Tell me, sir — tell me 
at once. I am on fire till I have seen him, 
and taken revenge ! ” 

Mr. Seyton came a step nearer, and laid 
his hand down on the shoulder that shook 
with passion beneath his touch. 

“ That has been moved out of your 
hands,” he said, solemnly. “ Ainslie is 
dead.” 

“Come in,” said Constance, gently, as 
Mr. Seyton paused at the door of her sitting- 
room, with Conway beside him. “She is 
sleeping now, but I will waken her. Come 
in.” 

“No — don’t waken her,” said Conway, 
coming forward; and then he suddenly 
stopped — for there, on a low couch beneath 
one of the windows, Mabel lay before him. 
She had apparently fallen asleep in the 
midst of some trifling employment, for one 
hand still held a piece of needle- work; but 
her attitude was that of profound repose, 
as well as perfect grace. Her head was 
somewliat thrown back, and the light 
streamed down softly through the green 
blinds, over her upturned face — the face 
whose bloom was almost as bright as on the 
morning when he told her that she looked 
more like Aurora than Titania. Her fair 
arms and neck gleamed like marble through 
the thin muslin which covered them ; and 
her rich golden curls lay in glittering pro- 
fusion over the dark sofa-cushions. Some- 
thing in the attitude and scene — difierent 
though both were — reminded Conway of 
the night when he had seen her thrown iuto 
mesmeric slumber ; and he turned to Con- 
stance, who had risen and stood near him. 

“Yon are sure it is a natural sleep ? ” he 
said. “ She looks almost as if she were mag- 
netized.” 

“It is entirely natural,” Constance an- 
swered. “Speak to her, if you wish to 
know — she wakes very easily.” 

He approached the sofa and knelt down 
by it. She looked so saint-like, in her 
youth and beauty, that for a moment he 


held his breath before he spoke. Then he 
uttered only one word — 

“Mabel!” 

Instantly she opened her eyes. For a 
moment she looked at him, as if half uncer- 
tain who or what he was. Then the mist 
of doubt cleared away. A smile came to 
her lips — a sweet, bright smile — but no ex- 
clamation broke from them. She only held 
out her hand, and, as he clasped it in both 
his own, she said, quietly : 

“You have come at last! I knew you 
would — but, O Philip, what a long time 
it has been ! ” 

“Very long, my love, very long!” he 
murmured, brokenly. “ But it shall never 
be again. I am with you now — now and 
forever.” 

“ Forever! ” she repeated, with the same 
smile, but with a wandering in her eyes, 
that showed at once her malady. “Forever 
— ah, yes, I know. We said that long ago, 
down by the river, did we not ? I have not 
forgotten my lesson, Philip. I have been 
waiting for you, to say it to you. The other 
Philip — there was another Philip, was there 
not? ” she asked, with a troubled look com- 
ing over the brightness of her face. “ He 
has not been here in a long time, either. 
But there was another Philip, was there 
not ? ” 

“Yes, yes,” he said, hastily — “there 
was another. But you were talking of me. 
What was it you wanted to say to me ? ” 

“My lesson,” she repeated. “I have 
never forgotten it — never. The other Phil- 
ip was very kind and good to me, but he 
was not you ; and I would not say it to him. 
I said it to myself, though, all the time ; and 
I know it now. Must I say it to you ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered ; “ say It to me.” 

She smiled and drew nearer to him. 

“Put your arms around me, then,” she 
said. “ That is the way, you know. Now 
let me lay my head down — so. If I forget 
some of it, you will not mind ? ” 

“ No, no.” 

“ Listen, then.” And with his arms 
round her, and her head resting on his 
shoulder, she began in a soft, low voice the 
verses he had repeated long before, in that 
June twilight on the river : 


156 


MABEL LEE. 


“ ‘ It was ordained to be so. Sweet — anc best 
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, and on thy breast. 

Still kiss me ! Care not for the cowards 1 Care 
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 
My blood will hurt 1 The Three I do not scorn 
To death, because they never lived : but I 
Have lived indeed, and so — (j'et one more kiss)— can 
die!’” 

When she finished, she glanced up into 
his face, but he was speechless. The sweet- 
ness of the past, and the anguish of the 
present, were too much for him. He drew 
in his breath with a quick, gasping sound, 
but he uttered not a word ; and, after a mo- 
ment, she spoke again. 

“Are you not going to praise me, Phil- 
ip?” she asked, half reproachfully. “I 
have said it — ah, so often ! — to myself! and 
I thought you would be sure to tell me you 
were glad. I have never said it to any one 
but you — never.” 

He looked up at Constance, who stood 
behind the sofa. 

“ My God ! How will I ever bear it? ” 
he asked. 

“Bear it as I have done — for her sake,” 
she answered, in her quiet voice. “See! 
she is pained that you do not answer. 
Speak to her.” 

He bent his head down then, and spoke 
to her. What he said neither of the others 
heard, but it seemed to satisfy her entirely. 
She leaned back on her cushions with a 
smile, and scarcely heeded that he bent his 
face down in her loose masses of hair, while 
his whole frame shook with convulsive emo- 
tion that seemed caused by the strong heaves 
of the heart throbbing so mightily in its 
love and despair. Despite this, Mabel wan- 
dered on with a stream of talk; and after a 
while he grew composed enough to answer 
her, and strive to discover how far her mind 
was sane, and how far overthrown. But 
he made little progress. Questions that she 
could not answer troubled her ; and he was 
forced at last to see for himself, what others 
had seen before him, that the very mildness 
of the malady made it the more hopeless of 
cure. Save in her recollection of onejor 
two people, the past was all a blank to her .. 
and he found that the endeavor to lead her 
mind back to any portion of it was utterly 
fruitless. Plainly, indeed, the efl^’ort did 


more harm than good ; and when he rose at 
last to go, it was with a heart sorer by 
much than when he had entered. 

“Come again, Philip — come again, very 
soon. Don’t stay away long,” were Mabel’s 
last words ; and the pleading look which ac- 
companied them followed him all the way 
to his hotel. 

When he reached there, the first piece 
of information he received was that a gen- 
tleman had called, and was waiting for him. 
The gentleman himself coming forward, he 
was surprised to see an absolute stranger— 
a dapper little man, very'carefully and pre- 
cisely dressed, who bowed in acknowledg- 
ment of his interrogative glance. 

“Mr. Conway, I presume? ” he said. 

“Yes, Mr. Conway,” Philip answered. 

“I have called on private business,” said 
the other. “If you will show me to your 
own room, I will explain it.” 

Conway felt too thoroughly indifferent 
to trouble himself with a single conjecture 
about the nature of the business thus unex- 
pectedly announced, but led the way at 
once to his room. After they entered, the 
stranger declined a chair, and, drawing some 
papers from his pocket, laid them on the 
table. 

“ I had the honor to be the lawyer of 
the late Mr. Ainslie, sir,” he said, “ and his 
last instructions were deposited in my 
hands. Among others, was a letter for 
yourself, which I thought it best to deliver 
in person.” 

More was said, but Conway had a very 
faint idea at the time, and a still fainter re- 
membrance afterward, of what it was. When 
at last the man took a ceremonious depart- 
ure, he was glad to sit down, for he felt 
strangely confused and giddy. Events had 
succeeded each other so rapidly that the 
power of realizing them seemed to have 
passed from him. Even with the dead 
man’s letter before him, he could not bring 
himself to a realization of all that had hap- 
pened. It was a long time before he could 
force himself to take up the sheet of paper 
— business-looking paper, covered with a 
lawyer’s smooth handwriting — and open it. 
When he did so, he saw that it began very 
abruptly, thus; 


THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES AFTER THEM. 


157 


“ OoxwAY : When this letter is placed 
in your hands, you can afford to read it, 
since I shall then be beyond the reach of 
your resentment or your forgiveness. The 
doctors tell me that I cannot live more than 
a few hours, and my own sensations assure 
me that I have not even that much of life to 
reckon confidently upon. Don’t misunder- 
stand me. Don’t think I write this to ask 
forgiveness, or to plead for any more kindly 
remembrance than you would have given if 
I had gone down to the grave with my lips 
closed. In your place, I should never par- 
don such an offence as the one you have 
suffered ; and I know you well enough to 
be sure that I will be as much the object of 
your execration at the last moment of your 
life as I am now. Understanding this, you 
will believe that I write solely to make an 
explanation which you could never other- 
wise hear ; and to speak the truth — not for 
my own sake, but for that of another — as a 
dying man may be supposed to speak it. 
It may be unnecessary, as far as you are 
concerned, but, for the benefit of the evil- 
speaking world, I once for all solemnly af- 
firm that no one, save myself and my paid 
agents, was concerned in the abduction of 
Mabel Lee. She was utterly powerless and 
passive^ — as I will hereafter explain. Before 
doing so, however, I must go back briefly to 
my first meeting with her. You may re- 
member how much I was struck by her 
beauty ; but of course you could not even 
have suspected that, from that hour, I deter- 
mined to win her ; and, notwithstanding her 
instantaneous attraction toward yourself, I 
did not despair of doing so. Ugly as I am, 
I had tested my powers of fascination often 
enough to be sure that I might easily dis- 
tance you in a fair race. On my honor, I 
thought nothing besides this, until the mes- 
meric ej:periment. When I saw the aver- 
sion she seemed, in consequence of that, to 
conceive toward me, I could not but hesi- 
tate in my purpose. I hesitated especially 
about the portrait-painting, on which hinged 
all else — for, necessarily, if I had abandoned 
that, I should have had no excuse for re- 
maining at Seyton House. Doubting my 
own judgment very much, I consulted her 
sister. She encouraged me to hope that the 


dislike was only transient, and would pass 
away in time. So I remained — and you 
know the rest, almost as well as I do. You 
saw how her dislike faded away, and how 
day by day her manner to me grew more 
cordial. Of course, I was fully aware of her 
preoccupation with yourself ; and I did not 
think for a moment that this change meant 
any faint wakening of love. But I did be- 
lieve, and I do still believe, thatif I could have 
removed her from your influence, I could 
soon have made her mine of her own free 
will and choice. Acting on this belief, I 
gradually conceived the idea of an abduc- 
tion. It was the only means of compassing 
the desired end in the desired manner ; it 
was the only means of proving that I could 
make her far more in love with me, than 
she was in love with you then. Yet I pur- 
posely sounded you beforehand, honestly 
meaning to relinquish the project if I found 
you deeply attached to her. And what did 
I hear? Only the careless jargon of the 
day ; the flippant talk of convenience and 
bondage ; the mere bubble froth of a fancy, 
which the next new toy would replace. I 
could not harm you by depriving you of 
any thing which you treated so lightly, 
I thought ; and, even for her own sake, I 
would do better to give her such love as 
mine — love that would have faced fire and 
sword for her — rather than a shallow fancy 
for her pretty face, like yours. After that, 
my last hesitation was at an end; and I laid 
my plans. The island ball gave me the op- 
portunity I desired, and 1 determined that, 
if possible, she should be carried off that 
night. It proved impossible; and was ne- 
cessarily postponed until the next day. You 
may remember how Fortune favored me 
then. Mr. Seyton kept you engaged, and 
Harding went off alone. I was in the terrace, 
and it was easy to go down the face of the 
bluff — the boat was moored at the foot. I 
got in, kept along the shore, and, quite un- 
seen, reached Mrs. Lee’s garden. There 
again Fortune favored me, for I found Mabel 
alone. After a good deal of persuasion, I 
induced her to take “ a short row ” with 
me. Once in the boat, I rowed rapidly 
down the stream, to a place where, accord- 
ing to my instructions, a carriage was to 


158 


MABEL LEE. 


meet me.’- — Here the same narrative which 
Mrs. Garland had given to Nowell was sub- 
stantially repeated. Then the writer spoke 
of the shock which Mabel’s insanity had 
been to him. “ I had heard of her father,” 
he said, “ and the result of the mesmeric ex- 
periment proved how highly strung was her 
own nervous organization, but I never for a 
moment dreaded, or in the least degree 
anticipated, such a conclusion to my scheme 
as this. I did not appreciate, in even the 
least degree, what such a shock to such a 
mind would inevitably cause. I intended to 
take her to Europe, and see what the phy- 
sicians of France and Germany could do for 
her ; but business arrangements delayed me 
— and this is the end. Perhaps it is better 
so ; perhaps my dream was only a dream, 
and no love or care could have won her 
heart; but at least I would have striven 
very hard, and I think I should have suc- 
ceeded. If she ever recovers, and you live 
to marry her, remember this. Remember 
how long I would have toiled and suffered 
for one tithe of the love she gives to you — 
and let the remembrance teach you some- 
thing of her value. 

“Now I have finished. Now you know 
the whole story. Once more, as at the be- 
ginning, let me say tliat I do not mean to 
ask your forgiveness ; and also that I never 
intended to injure you, as it seems I did. 

“Ralph Ainslie.” 

That was all. The dead man’s signature 
— written by his own hand — stood out clear 
and black on the white paper, and, as Con- 
way gazed at it, something of the old friend- 
ship stirred suddenly at his heart. The 
' thought that, with all its faults and all its 
virtues, this soul stood now before the bar 
of God, hushed on his lips any thing like 
those execrations of which the letter spoke. 
On the contrary, he laid his hand down up- 
on the open page, and bent his head over it 
reverently. 

“ God forgive him ! ” he said, half aloud. 
“ God forgive him — as I do ! ” 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

INTO THE SUNLIGHT. 

“ Phil,” said Mr. Seyton, as they walked 
slowly along the street, a day or two after- 
ward, “ Phil, the doctors here give no hope 
whatever of Mabel’s recovery ; but I have 
determined not to rest satisfied with their 
decision.” 

Conway started out of a fit of abstrac- 
tion, and looked at his uncle. Hope had so 
entirely deserted him, that he could not 
conceive how Mr. Seyton still clung to it ; 
but then it was not his part to echo the 
opinion of the doctors, so he only asked, 
with a sort of weary indifference — 

“What do you mean to do, sir? ” 

“ I have been thinking about it,” said 
Mr. Seyton. “ I mean to take her where 
the best science of the world is to be found 
— in other words, to Paris.” 

“ You mean to take her there? ” 

“ Yes. If her mother will consent — and 
I don’t think there is any doubt of that — I 
will take her as soon as possible.” 

Conway shook his head. 

“I can’t see the good of it,” he said. 
“Believe me, sir, the doctors in Paris will 
tell you exactly what the doctors in Charles- 
ton have done.” 

“ Then I will go to Germany, or to Lon- 
don, or to anywhere else, where a medical 
faculty exists,” said Mr. Seyton, firmly. “If 

all else fail, I shall even follow Dr. R ’s 

advice, and see if mesmerism, which crazed, 
cannot also, by judicious application, cure 
her. You may be sure of one thing, Phil — 

I shall never give up trying. It was you 
who said that, when she was lost, and I 
despaired of her return : now our positions 
are reversed. Now, you despair, and I 
hope — I, by God’s help, yet mean ^o accom- 
plish that for which I hope.” 

“ Even so, sir,” said Conway. “ I can- 
not think you will succeed, but God’s help 
be with you ! ” 

So it was settled. Mrs. Lee readily 
consented to any thing which held out the 
faintest promise of ultimate cure ; and it 
was decided that she should return to Ayre, 


INTO THE SUNLIGHT. 


159 


with Nowell, while Mr. Seyton sailed for 
Europe with Constance and Mabel. For a 
while, Conway made arrangements to ac- 
company them ; but the only one of the 
doctors who gave any encouragement to the 
project negatived that at once. “ I have 
not much hope in the medical science on 
the other side of the water,” he said; “but 
change of scene, and entire separation from 
all the associations connected with her 
malady, may perhaps right her mind in 
time. There is no telling ; but, at least, if 
the experiment is made at all, it should be 
fairly tested. Now, you are one of the^e 
associations, Mr. Conway; and your pres- 
ence must necessarily recall a great deal she 
had better forget, since you are interwoven 
with all the events that have ended so dis- 
astrously. Therefore, once for all, you 
must not accompany her to Europe. You 
must stay in America, or go to Asia or 
Africa, if you desire, but you must not 
cross her path until she is entirely recov- 
ered — if indeed recovery is possible. Un- 
derstand that this is final.” It was not 
so final but that Conway stoutly rebelled 
against it, though he was at last overruled, 

“No, you must stay,” said Mr. Seyton. 
“ The doctor is right — I can fully appreciate 
that. If she recovers at all, it will be with 
those whom she has known all her life, and 
who are not prominently associated with 
these things of which the doctor speaks. 
Not another word, Phil ! — you must stay.” 

Conway looked at Constance; but he 
found no encouragement there. Her stead- 
fast gray eyes met his with the same re- 
solve in them. “You must stay,” she said. 
“ Think for a moment of the harm your 
presence might do, and then you will see 
the necessity as plainly as we. You must 
stay.” 

“ But I might go, and be within reach, 
without seeing her.” 

“Impossible. You would end by seeing 
her, and perhaps unaoing any good that 
might have been done. No, the risk should 
not be run ; and the Atlantic had better be 
between yon.” 

“ It must be between them,” said Mr. 
Seyton. — “ Don't let me hear any more of 
this, Phil. Go down to Seyton House, and 


take care of things while I am absent. You 
owe me that, I think ; and you ought to 
grow accustomed to your duties before they 
are thrown for good and for all on your 
shoulders. I have only one request to make 
— don’t quarrel with Blake.” 

“ I think you may trust me, sir. In my 
present mood, he might burn the house 
over my head, and I should not question 
the expediency of doing so.” 

“You will get over that,” said Mr. Sey- 
ton ; “ especially if we are able to send you 
cheering news. I am glad Adela is in Paris. 
She will be able to assist us materially. 
When we return, I shall bring her back 
with me — for good.” 

The young man’s eyes suddenly softened 
and moistened in a peculiar way they had. 

“My poor mother! ” he said. “She will 
be overjoyed to see you, sir; and pray tell 
her every thing. She has wonderful brains 
for a woman, and can help you, I am sure. 
As for me, if I must stay behind, like a use- 
less log, I must — ’that is all.” 

After this, preparations were hurried 
forward, and in a few days the outward- 
bound trio were quite ready. It was only 
at the last moment that Mabel was told that 
she was going. She made no difficulty, as 
they had half feared she would ; but only 
looked up at Conway with a smile. “ Are 
you going, too ? ” she asked. 

“Not now,” he answered, with a sharp 
pang; “ but you will not be gone very long ; 
and, when you come back, I shall be waiting 
for you. You must try and get well. The 
sooner you get well, the sooner we shall 
meet again. Remember that.” 

“ But am I not well, now ? What is the 
matter with me ? ” 

“ The carriage is ready,” said Mr. Seyton, 
breaking in abruptly; and, without answer- 
ing her question, Conway led her down. 

An hour or two later, he stood on the 
dock watching the steamer tliat bore her, 
as it steamed out of the harbor. The last 
face he saw distinctly was hers — still turned 
toward him, and the land where he re- 
mained, as she was carried faster and faster 
away. 

When he turned round, he was surprised 
to see Nowell behind him. They had met 


160 


MABEL LEE. 


before, bnt not cordially; and there was 
ground for his astonishment when the latter 
said, “ I have })ut my aunt in the carriage, 
and sent her otf, Mr. Conway; if you have 
no objection, we will walk back together.” 

“ Certainly,” said Conway ; and, with 
one last glance at the vanishing steamer, 
they turned away from the dock, and set 
their faces cityward. They walked on for 
some time in silence, and then Nowell spoke 
abruptly — spoke very much as Mr. Blake 
had spoken before him. 

“ I am not a man who knows very well 
how to do a graceful thing, Mr. Conway; 
but at least I liope I know how to do an 
honest one. Now, it has been on my mind 
for some time to retract a good many offen- 
sive things I said to you. Of course I dis- 
covered long since that my suspicions were 
entirely unfounded. You bore my charges 
more patiently than might have been ex- 
pected; and I now apologize for them, fully 
and freely. If, after this, you wish to re- 
sent them, I am at your service. If not, we 
are never likely to be friends, but at least 
we need not be enemies.” 

“I have not the least desire to resent 
them, [ assure you,” said Conway, smiling, 
for the fire-eating proclivities of the other 
rather amused him. “ They were very nat- 
ural, I think; only for once you let preju- 
dice weigh more than proof. In your place, 

I might have done the same; and, if you had 
charged me with the blackest crime in the 
decalogue, I am sure I could forgive it 
heartily, for I am not likely to forget that it 
was yoti, not I, who found her.” 

Nowell bent his head. 

“Yes, I found her,” he said, and there 
was no little bitterness in the tone. “ I 
found her — for you.” 

“God only knows that,” said the other; 

“ for He only knows whether or not she 
will ever be herself again. We can only 
hope ; and meanwhile — I am sorry to hear 
you say that we are never likely to be 
friends. Why not?” 

“For a good many reasons,” answered 
Nowell, as coldly as ever. “We have noth- 
ing in common, for one. But, as I said be- 
fore, we need not be enemies ; and we can 
at least respect each other.” 


“I am determined that we shall do more 
than that ; I am determined that we shall 
also like each other.” 

NoweU smiled faintly in his dry, cold 
way. 

“You will accomplish a prodigy then,” 
he said. “ It was a wise man who said first 
that nothing is impossible, however ; twenty 
years hence, we may like each other. In 
the mean time, my duty is done, and I must 
leave you, for I have business here. Good- 
day.” 

He stopped as he spoke, in front of a 
lawyer’s office, and, before Conway could do 
more than echo his salutation, vanished. 

“ His duty done,” repeated the latter, as 
he pursued his w^ay. “ I congratulate him on 
that, for mine i§ yet to come. I must write 
at once and make the amende honorable to 
poor Cyril. I wonder if he will ever forgive 
me? — and yet the fault was not mine. How 
far astray we all went ! ” 

How far, indeed; and yet already the 
dawn of the brighter day appeared ; already 
the clouds of suspicion fled back into the 
past — forsaking even that lonely grave 
where, under the bloom of the magnolias, 
Ainslie slept. 

Months rolled by, and still the Seyton 
party remained abroad, sending many bulle- 
tins home, yet speaking guardedly and cau- 
tiously of Mabel in all of them. The medi- 
cal men gave very little hope, they said, but 
still did not absolutely declare the malady 
incurable. They prescribed perfect rest, 
and entire absence from any associations 
recalling the past. But of the future they 
were absolutely reticent, and promised 
nothing. She might recover, or she might 
not ; the case was a singular one, and there 
was little experience bearing upon it. In 
Mabel herself there was scarcely any change 
reported, even when six months had gone 
by. She was still as gentle and passive 
ns ever, and still asked incessantly for 
“Philip ” — that was all. At the end of the 
year, Mr. Seyton left her and Constance in 
Paris with Mrs. Conway, and came over for 
Mrs. Lee. Then, once more, Conway pe- 
titioned eagerly to accompany them back ; 
but his uncle would not listen to it. “We 


INTO THE SUNLIGHT. 


161 


hope and trust she \s somewliat better,” he 
said. “ She has ceased to mention, and 
seems to have forgotten you — which the 
doctors think a good sign. We must not 
tamper with her by any risk. Stay where 
you are.” So once more the chafing, impa- 
tient heart was left behind in its enforced 
quietude, while the others sailed away — far 
away, toward the distant city where Mabel 
sojourned. 

In the course of the next few months, 
the letters grew more encouraging in their 
tone. The doctors began to give more de- 
cided leave for hope. Mabel’s mind seemed 
to be gradually clearing of its mist, and ac- 
quiring something of the vigor of health. 
She took interest in her old occupations, 
and entered into amusements and pleasures 
with some faint shade of appreciation. 
She began to recall very distinctly the things 
and people of her past life — always ex- 
cepting the period which commenced with 
Conway’s arrival at Seyton House, and 
ended with her own coming to Paris. When 
the second summer of her absence came 
round, Mr. Seyton wrote that the doctors 
prescribed travel and change of scene; so 
the whole party were going to Switzerland, 
and thence to any place Mabel might desire. 
From Switzerland the news grew even more 
cheering. “ These glorious mountain re- 
gions have seemed to do her more good than 
any thing else,” Constance wrote. “ Her 
first real interest — by that, I mean interest 
which is not merely simulated to give us pleas- 
ure, but is born of her own sensations — has 
been shown here. She is cheerful always, and 
sometimes even gay ; but occasionally that 
dark cloud of melancholy steals over her, and 
then I tremble. The danger is not past yet. 
But sl\p can almost always be roused from 
her depression, which was not formerly the 
case; and she seems, at other times, to have 
recovered much of her old sunny disposition. 
Her physical health is, thank God, entirely 
perfect.” 

And so the summer passed, and, when 
the fall came, instead of turning their faces 
toward Paris again, they went on into Italy, 
at Mabel’s own request. The winter was 
spent in Rome, and, in the spring, they 
began for the first time to speak of return- 
11 


ing home. Mabel was quite her old self, 
the letters which announced this resolutiosi 
said ; had entirely recovered, save in the 
single respect of totally forgetting the period 
of time before mentioned. The efforts to 
lead her memory back to this had failed 
utterly. It was a perfect blank — a space 
that seemed to have lapsed out of her life. 
This weakness, the physicians said, would 
never be cured ; but otherwise they pro- 
nounced her mind to be once more perfectly 
healthy and well-balanced. So at last, two 
years and a half after she left Charleston, 
Mabel was coming back to her native place, 
and the people of Ayre rejoiced over the 
news as they might have rejoiced over the 
raising of one from the dead. 

The returning party landed in May, and, 
strangely enough, it was on the same day 
of the month when Philip Conway had 
reached Seyton House three years before, 
that they entered Ayre. He who had borne 
this long separation so well, had been for- 
bidden to meet them, so he remained at the 
house, and was pacing the front portico 
with impatient steps, when a travelling-car- 
riage drove up. By the time he reached 
it, his uncle was handing out a lady, and 
the next moment he was in his mother’s 
arms. 

After the first greeting, his questions 
were all of Mabel. How had she borne it? 
How had she stood the test of return? 

“Admirably well,” his mother said. 
“She remembered every thing perfectly ; 
and seemed deeply affected by the joy which 
every one testified at seeing her. Despite 
all prohibitions, there was a perfect ovation 
of welcome, and, in the midst of it, they 
scarcely noticed me, who have not been 
here for twenty years or more.” 

“ Ah, but you went away very differ- 
ently, Adela,” said Mr Seyton, with a sigh. 
“Yes, she has stood it better even than we 
dared to hope, but the test will be when she 
meets you, Phil. I tremble for the result. 
I almost fear we have done wrong to try 
it.” 

“No,” said Conway. “You have done 
right. If her mind is perfectly restored, 
there will be no danger. If not, it is better 
to know it. The question is, will sue recog- 


162 


MABEL LEE. 


nize me, or shall I have to meet her as a 
stranger ? ” 

Both the others shook their heads. They 
could not tell that. Time would have to 
show ; and meanwhile he must be patient a 
little longer. He could not see her that 
day; she had had excitement enough; he 
must wait until the next. 

So the heart which had borne so much, 
bore also this last delay, which was perhaps 
the hardest of all. But the next morning 
early, a message was sent into the town to 
prepare Constance for his coming, and bid 
her arrange that he should meet Mabel, ap- 
parently at least, alone. A little later he 
entered the boat, and rowed past the gar- 
dens where he had first met her, past the 
island where the midsummer-night pavilion 
yet stood, past the willow-edged banks by 
which they had floated so often together, 
until he reached the well-known steps at the 
foot of Mrs. Lee’s garden. Then, for the 
first time, his heart failed him. What if the 
experiment should, after all, result disas- 
trously? What if the shock should bring 
back her insanity? He hesitated, faltered, 
almost turned back ; might indeed have 
done so, if he had not heard a clear voice 
lilting a song he knew well — a song Mabel 
had often sung for him in the days that 
seemed so very far away. It was only a 
stanza that floated down to his ear, on the 
soft May air; but, when it ended, his irres- 
olution was gone. He forgot the weary 
years of absence, the long estrangement, the 
cruel cloud, that had been between them; 
he only thought of her as he first saw her, 
in the spring-tide freshness of her beauty 


and grace. The next moment he sprang up 
the steps, and walked along the garden-path. 
He had not gone far, before he stopped ab- 
ruptly — she was there I 

Yes, she was there, sitting on a low seat 
beneath a rose-bush, as fair and fresh and 
lovely as his fancy had pictured her, five 
minutes before — sitting with the tender 
green of the foliage, and the tinted petals of 
the blossoms, all around her — a vision that 
might have stirred a heart of stone. 

He paused, but she had heard his step, 
and looked up. His heart seemed to make 
one bound, and then stand still, for on the 
next moment hinged every thing thej’ hoped 
or feared. She gazed at him for an instant, 
with half wonder, half-struggling recogni- 
tion in her eyes. And then she held out 
her hands with a cry.' “Philip ! ” she said, 
and, when he sprang forward, she fell faint- 
ing into his arms. 

Instantly a group that had been am- 
bushed in the arbor — Constance, Mrs. Con- 
way, and Mr. Seyton — rushed forth, in wild 
alarm. But he beckoned them back, and 
bent over her, calling her name in every 
tender tone. The swoon was very slight, 
for, after a moment, she recovered sufficient- 
ly to open her eyes and look at him— won - 
deringly, it seemed. 

“ My love, my love,” he said, “ do you not 
know me ? ” I promised to meet you, and I 
am here — yours, yours only and forever ! ” 

Then a smile, bright as an angel’s, came 
over her face. 

“ Philip ! ” she repeated ; and that was 
all that she said, but it told every thing, 
and ended their fears forever. 




THE END. 


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“We agree with those who hold ‘The Manxman’ to be the best of Mr. Hall Caine’s 
stories, and one of the best stories of the year.” — The Critic. 

“ A singularly powerful and picturesque piece of work, extraordinarily dramatic. . . . 
Taken altogether, ‘ The Manxman’ can not fail to enhance Mr. Hall Caine’s reputation. It 
is a most powerful book.” — London Standard. 

“ The story will assuredly rank with Mr. Caine’s best work, and will obtain immediate 
favor with the lovers of strong and pure romance.” — London Globe. 

“ The story will absorb thousands of readers, and add rare laurels to the reputation of its 
author. ... A work such as only a g^eat story-teller could imagine. ... A really great 
novel.” — Liverpool Post. 

“ A book the construction and execution of which very few living European novelists could 
excel. The fullness of the texture in this last novel, the brilliancy of the successive episodes, 
the gravity and intensity of the sentiment, the art with which the ever-deepening central 
tragedy is relieved by what is picturesque and what is comic-^all this has only to be seriously 
considered to be highly appreciated. ‘ The Manxman ’ is a contribution to literature, and the 
most fastidious critic would give in exchange for it a wilderness of that deciduous trash which 
our publishers call fiction.” — Edmund Gosse, in St. James's Gazette. 

“ A work of rare merit and striking originality. . . . Indubitably the finest book that Mr. 
Hall Caine has yet produced. It is a noble contribution to the enrichment of English fiction 
and the advancement of its author’s fame.” — London Academy. 

“ It will be read and reread, and take its place in the literary inheritance of the English- 
speaking nations, like George Eliot's great books.” — The Queen. 

“ ‘The Manxman,’ we may say at once, confirms the author’s claims to rank among the 
first novelists of the day. . . . The story is constructed and worked out wdth consummate 
skill, and, though intensely tragic, it is lightened by some charming descriptions of scenery 
and local customs. The characters, even the minor ones, are closely studied and finely exe- 
cuted, and show a deep experience and knowledge of human nature, in its lighter as well as 
darker aspects, such as only a master hand could faithfully have drawn.” — London Literary 
World. 

“ In truth it is Mr. Caine’s masterpiece, and congratulations are pouring in upon him 
from right and left. . . . The story had only been issued a few hours when Mr. Gladstone 
wrote to the Isle of Man to express his admiration for the new success. Correspond- 

ence 0/ the New York Critic. 


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ADA CAMBRIDGE’S NOVELS. 


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plicity of style and fresh, genuine feeling. . 
character.” — Boston Transcript. 

“ T\\q dinoutnent is all that the most ardent romance-reader could desire.” 
ing yournal. 


The author is au fait at the delineation of 

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HE THREE MISS KINGS. 

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“An exceedingly strong novel. It is an Australian story, teeming with a certain calmness 
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“ The story is told with great brilliancy, the character and society sketching is very charm- 
ing, while delightful incidents and happy surprises abound. It is a triple love story, pure in 
tone, and of very high literary merit.” — Chicago Herald. 


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OT ALL IN VAIN. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

“ A worthy companion to the best of the author’s former efforts, and in some respects 


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“ Its surprises are as unexpected as Frank Stockton’s, but they are the surprises that are met 
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“ This story by Ada Cambridge is one of her best, and to say that is to at once award it 
high praise.” — Boston Advertiser. 


“ It is a pleasure to read this novel.” — London Athenccum. 


LITTLE MINX. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

“A thoroughly charming new novel, which is just the finest bit of work its author has 
yet accomplished.” — Baltimore American. 

“ The character of the versatile, resilient heroine is especially cleverly drawn.” — New York 
Commercial Advertiser. 

‘“A Little Minx ’ has much clever by-play in it, and Ada Cambridge has a clearly defined 
method. She knows exactly what is the objective point of her story, and, above all, she never 
sermonizes, nor is she diffuse.” — New York Times. 

The English Press on Ada Cambridge’s Books. 

“Many of the types of character introduced would not have disgraced George Eliot. 
Vanity Fair. 

“Ada Cambridge’s book is rendered attractive by the kindly spirit and fine feeling which 
it evinces, by the wide and generous sympathies of its author, and no less by her remarkable 
literary ability.” — The Speaker. 


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CONVENTIONAL BOHEMIAN. 

TON, author of “ One Woman’s Way,” etc. i2mo. 


By Edmund Pendle- 

Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 


“ The vividly drawn characters of this interesting: and thoughtful novel are the work of a 
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“Mr. Pendleton shows power of invention and skill in dramatic arrangement.”— iWzy 
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VIRGINIA INHERITANCE. By Edmund Pendleton, 

authoj of “A Conventional Bohemian,” “ One Woman’s Way,” etc. i2mo. 
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author 


DUSK TO DAWN. 

of “ Metzerott, Shoemaker.” 


By Katharine Pearson Woods, 
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“ Rarely, indeed, does an author attain to such wide prominence in so short a time as did 
Katharine Pearson Woods on the appearance of her somewhat socialistic novel called ‘ Metze- 
rott, Shoemaker.’ That story, however, with all its absorbing power, gave only the faintest 
evidence of the real strength that has hitherto remained latent, but which is now so wonder- 
fully developed in her latest story, ‘ From Dusk to Dawn.’” — Baltimore Americafi. 

“ The author has not only successfully interwoven discussions upon religion and the occult 
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“ If a novel may be called orthodox, this book is entitled to come under that classification.” 
— San Francisco Call. 

“ Certainly a remarkable book, in which the questions of spiritualism, hypnotism, and 
magnetism are treated in a decidedly original fashion.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 



OOTSTEP S OF FATE. By Louis Couperus, author of 

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“ The dramatic development up to a tragical climax is in the manner of a true artist.” — 
Philadelphia Bulletin. 

“ A remarkable study of the theory of fatalism and its effect upon the human mind, of the 
sophistical reasoning to which it leads, and of the absolute indifference to the fate of others 
which it succeeds in establishing. If the work of the Dutch Sensitivists, as Edmund Gosse 
calls them in his preface, is maintained on such a level as this, their translation into English 
is a distinct gain.” — The Critic. 

“Almost throughout reveals a careful, restrained sobriety of manner, and an exceeding 
clearness of touch.” — London Athenceum. 


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made a most artistic use of the motives and springs of action revealed to him in a field 
of which he is the master. 


“ A volume of bright, clever sketches, ... an array of facts and fancies of medical life, 
and contains some of the gifted author’s best work.” — London Daily News. - 



FLASH OF SUMMER. By Mrs. W. K. Clifford, author 
of “ Love Letters of a Worldly Woman,” “Aunt Anne,” etc. i2mo. 
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“ A love story pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, wholesome, sunshiny kind, with 
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woman ; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year it has escaped 
us.” — New York Times. 


A^AELCHO. 

“Hurrish,” 


By the Hon. Emily Lawless, author of 
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Grania,” 


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know. It is not a novel, and yet fascinates us more than any novel.” — London Spectator. 

‘ ■ The narrative is so picturesque, the situations so dramatic, and the literary style so ex- 
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“ For power and thrilling interest ‘ Maelcho ’ is hardly second to any historical novel that 
we have read.” — Boston Home journal. 


J ^HE LAND OF THE SUN. Vistas Mexicanas. By Christian 
Reid, author of “The Land of the Sky,” “A Comedy of Elopement,” 
etc. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.75. 

In this picturesque travel romance the author of “ The Land of the Sky ” takes 
her characters from New Orleans to fascinating Mexican cities like Guanajuato, 
Zacatecas, Aguas Calientes, Guadalajara, and of course the City of Mexico. What 
they see and what they do are described in a vivacious style which renders the book 
most valuable to those who wish an interesting Mexican travel-book unencumbered 
with details, while the story as a story sustains the high reputation of this talented author. 


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HE AWAKENING 

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OF MARY FENWICK. 


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MATTER OF SKILL. 

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N THE SUN TIME OF HER YOUTH. 

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HE PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES, 1789- 
1894. By John Fiske, Carl Schurz, William E. Russell, 
Daniel C. Gilman, William Walter Phelps, Robert C. Win- 
THROP, George Bancroft, John Hay, and Others. Edited by Gen. 
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States.” — Philadelphia Press. 

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o o 

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Herald. 


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r^ITY GOVERNMENT IN THE UNITED STATES, 

Alfred R. Conkling. i2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 


By 


“ One of the most comprehensive and best books of the kind ever published. This 
is the best and it will be the most important book in the English language on mu- 
nicipal government.” — New Haven Leader. 

“ A work in which every thoughtful and patriotic American will feel the deepest 
interest.” — Boston Transcript. 

“ Henceforth not alone New York but the country in general will know Mr. 
Conkling as the author of one of the most important books in the interest of municipal 
reform. . . . Many theoretical books, usually heavy, bulky volumes, have we seen 
devoted to reforms, but we believe that Mr. Conkling’s is the first of its kind written 
by a man who thoroughly understands from personal experience the subject under 
consideration.” — New York Mail and Express. 

“ We commend this book to the careful perusal and thoughtful study of all who are 
interested in reforming existing abuses in municipal government.” — Detroit Free 
Press. 


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